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Chapter Text

The endless California summers are beginning to weigh Bradley down.

Flocking west from the Virginia suburbs at nineteen, the Los Angeles heat had once seemed like an escape - a fantasy that shrouded the town in an air of mystery far more exotic than its contents implied.

Winters weren't bleak, spring and fall were passing phases each year, while summer was eternal.

Bradley had loved it. He was made to live in that kind of climate, shirts barely buttoned and the wind whipping through his hair as he drove down to Santa Monica.

The girls were plentiful - free and wild in a way that was never seen in Virginia. And what’s more, they wanted him back. They loved it when he pressed them up against his car and kiss them like he was about to lose them. Whispering sweet nothings, rehashed and reused for each new date.

He knew he was lucky. Anyone who returned from the war was lucky. To return entirely in tact, with little to no physical injuries, was near enough astonishing. The government didn’t care about the nightmares, or the drinking, or the excessive sex - in their books, Bradley Bradshaw was the perfect poster-boy for Hollywood’s growing empire. Young, patriotic, handsome, willing. He was born to be a star.

Paramount got their hands on him first, an agent plucking him from obscurity from their front gates his first day in the city - a fate most people could only dream of. A small salary, contracted for five movies - it was still more money than he had ever seen in his entire life.

Acting came naturally to him, almost surprisingly so. Having only done some theatre in high school, it would have been very easy for Bradley to coast by on just his looks - his legions of female fans would have carried him through anything in the early days.

Instead, he wanted to hone the craft - he wanted to be one of the greats. In between takes, he’d wander around the lot, trying desperately to soak up the atmosphere, learn as much as possible from the seasoned professionals surrounding him day in, day out.

So he took the lessons offered to him at the studio, becoming proficient in acting, singing, and the piano. He didn’t admit to anyone that he had actually played the piano since he was four.

It was nice letting people assume that he was some sort of protégé. The dancing didn't quite click, but it very quickly grew not to matter. Musicals were never his thing, anyway.

His first film came out at the start of 1919. A silly romance called Last Kiss, where he played the younger brother of the lead - his character continually trying to derail his sister’s romantic endeavours. It was a bit part at best, with barely any meat, but Bradley knew they were just testing him. Seeing what he could make from nothing.

So Louis went from being a jealous younger brother out to sabotage his more successful sister, to a boy broken by his parents’ divorce, and just desperate to keep his family together. He saw his sister finding happiness elsewhere, and his greatest fears became realised as people began to leave him behind.

While Louis’ arc is never fully resolved in the film, it came across to critics and the public alike that Bradley Bradshaw was one to be watched. His charm in Act One quickly gives way to a selfishness, and by the time the revelation is made that he is the ultimate antagonist, he’s almost unrecognisable.

Even without words, Bradley was able to convey an immense range of the human condition, in just a few scenes.

Last Kiss was a massive hit, and Paramount were thrilled. The future of Hollywood had stumbled right into their hands.

There was only one way forward. Shakespeare. Ever since finding their Juliet in the form of Natasha Trace, they’d been scrambling to find a Romeo. In him, they found perfection. The ultimate romantic hero.

It was the film of the year. Electric chemistry, sweeping strings, and sophomore performances that blew critics away.

He and Nat were both household names before the year was out.

Paparazzi started following him wherever he went, taking note of where he was going, who he was going with.

The who changed frequently. With all this newfound fame, a whole host of options suddenly became available. Actors are fickle creatures - they want a piece of whatever is in. And Bradley was in like nobody had ever seen before.

Of course, with that, came the rumours.

Bradley couldn't leave the house with someone without the press assuming he was fucking them. And while most of the time they were right, it pissed him off on the rare occasions they weren't.

The public had never seen anything like it. Someone so comfortable with his own sexuality, that the whispering didn't even seem to phase him. In a time where allegations of being with another man could end careers, Bradley simply shrugged and moved on.

He didn't feel a need to defend himself. Why should he? He liked who he liked, and fucked who he wanted, and that was all there was to it.

Until Catherine. His first love. Meeting on the set of his third film - Swingtime Spring, the story of a Navy flyboy who falls in love with a jazz singer while on leave, leading to a brief and emotional affair. Catherine had played the female lead, and Bradley had been head over heels for her from the get-go.

They were hitched before filming had even finished, with Bradley just about to turn twenty, and Catherine freshly eighteen.

No one thought it would work. They were determined to prove them wrong.

Everyone wants to believe that they're special - that they’re the ones who can make it last, truly commit to a lifetime together.

But with two rising stars, it becomes very difficult to keep any time for yourselves. Catherine was signed to Columbia, while Bradley was still working with Paramount - physically not very far, but a lifetime apart.

It became apparent within the first year that they were better off as friends - Bradley’s still not sure why they stayed married for another three years after that. Naivety? Persistence? Whatever it was, fizzled out entirely in 1923. They parted as friends, taking only their own assets, and the media were proven correct.

That was the worst part about the entire ordeal. The incessant headlines, each one more ridiculous than the last.

What had been an amicable affair was painted as the worst scandal in Hollywood.

BRADSHAW AFFAIR: THE DOWNFALL OF CATHERINE AND BRADLEY’S FAIRYTALE MARRIAGE

SECRET LOVE-CHILD? INSIDE THE KELLY-BRADSHAW HOUSEHOLD, AND THE TRUTH THAT ROCKED THEIR MARRIAGE

CATHERINE KELLY LEFT DEVASTATED AS BRADLEY BRADSHAW LEAVES FOR YOUNGER CO-STAR

Sure, he had started seeing Wendy pretty soon after the divorce. But what the public didn’t know was that he and Cat had been separated for three months before it went public. Cat herself had moved on, and yet Bradley got all the flack for it.

A pattern that would continue to show in his future relationships.

It had taken a while for everyone to take him seriously again - to remember that he was an actor before he was a celebrity. Within a year of the divorce, he was back on top - with two pictures at the top of the box office at once, for three months straight.

So it came as no surprise to anyone when he was nominated at the very first Academy Awards a few years later - Best Actor for The Patent Leather Kid. A film about a self-centred boxer whose heroic act in the war forces him to re-evaluate his entire life. It had been hard, reliving that era of his life, even almost a decade on, but Bradley knew he had to suffer for the craft.

It was what the greats did.

And Bradley was quickly becoming one of them.

He didn't win, but it was a given that he was going to be around for a long, long time. He had the charisma, the look, the star quality. Hollywood was his for the taking.

Until the world of sound came crashing down upon them all.

*****

He doesn't think it's unreasonable to be a little grouchy these days.

Sweat dripping down his back ten minutes after stepping outside - he's miserable before his car even pulls onto the Paramount lot.

And those are the good days. The days when he has a job, something to break up the monotony of the girls and the booze.

They're getting fewer and farther between with each passing bomb.

First there had been Rose and Thorn - a production Bradley's agent Michael had assured him would be a smash hit. How could it not be? Bradley Bradshaw and Natasha Trace, sharing the screen for the first time since their record-shattering Romeo and Juliet, the highest grossing film of 1919.

Both of them had been publicly applauded for their performances, and audiences had been waiting for an onscreen reunion for a decade. Now that talkies were in, everyone wanted to see their favourite onscreen couple in the new media.

But unfortunately, the best of casts can't overcome a terrible script. Overwrought and emotionally manipulative, even the pair's biggest fans struggled to defend it. The characters were unlikeable, and the chemistry felt forced despite Nat and Bradley's real life friendship.

Contrary to popular opinion, the two never dated, or even slept together. Nat had drawn very clear boundaries in the sand from day one, and Bradley respected that. It only took a few months for her to become a pseudo-sister, and any notion of romance flew swiftly out the window.

She's just a good friend, and scene partner.

But the film still flopped, barely making enough to breakeven after it was universally panned by critics and the public alike.

Nat had recovered - her next picture Private Matters was critically acclaimed, earning her a Best Actress nomination. She played a ballet dancer re-learning the art after a horrible accident had left her bedbound for months, and had shot back into stardom. She had given a wonderful, subtle performance, and Bradley thought she deserved every bit of praise she got.

His career did not fare quite so well, with his next three projects bombing to an even greater degree than Rose and Thorn.

Half-hearted attempts to recreate his glory days, he was losing the touch. The magic. The love of acting.

No longer did he spend hours pouring over scripts, trying desperately to understand each man he played.

He didn't care about what drove them, why they did what they did. Why they loved, why they hated.

Even Louis, the man who had started it all - had gotten better treatment. With barely fifteen minutes of screentime, Bradley had spent far longer pouring over his wants, his ambitions, his needs, than he ever did for his leading men these days.

Broken Throne had come after Rose and Thorn, an odd, jumbled Shakespeare ode in which Bradley played a tortured artist. Fitting given his current predicament, but ultimately a drag that haemorrhaged money.

The days of awards buzz and nominations are long gone. Bradley Bradshaw is washed up - the ultimate has-been.

In just a few years, he's gone from being amongst the first actors to ever be nominated for an Academy Award, to a nobody.

His only half decent projects anymore are supporting roles - usually the villain. He knows exactly what that means. He's being phased out, defeated by the newer, more talented, more attractive actors, swept in by the wave of sound.

People don't care for silent films anymore. Not when they can hear their heroes, can hear their voices. It makes it easier to get lost. Love confessions chanted in the near-silence of a movie theatre. Fights echoing around the room, inserting you fully into the magic happening onscreen.

As a cinephile? It’s an incredible revelation, opening up storytelling in ways he never could have imagined.

As an actor? It’s utterly terrifying.

The world is passing him by, and Bradley’s not sure he can keep up.

*****

The whole scene is just an annoyance these days. The girls, the studios, the parties, the debt.

But it's not all bad.

Not all the time.

His living situation has vastly improved in the years he's lived on the west coast.

The Paramount-issued apartment at the start of his career had seemed like a palace initially - but the entire thing could fit in his current bedroom.

The house in Mulholland hadn't been cheap. He'd bought it after Romeo and Juliet. The roles had been flowing in at that point. He was making between eight and twelve pictures a year, and the pay was like he was making twenty.

And it's the perfect place. Overlooking the city, the Spanish Colonial had been exactly the refuge Bradley needed. Guaranteed privacy, central location, and there are few other places in LA where you can fuck in the comfort of your own home with the Hollywoodland sign adorning the greenery outside.

Women love it.

“Oh, this old thing? Yeah, you get used to it eventually.”

Bradley still hasn't, actually. Every time he steps into his backyard, the sign strikes him like an arrow heading home, straight for his heart. A constant reminder looming over him, that he has to prove himself worthy of this town.

A reminder that despite his highest highs, he’s still not impenetrable. One too many bombs at the box office, and he’ll be right back where he started.

He suspects that Paramount aren’t far from that. Not when he’s been dropped from his latest project, and downgraded to a supporting role in the one before that.

Playing second fiddle to Jack Winter, of all people. A scrawny Southern kid on the rise, with an ego fit for ten men. If you ask Bradley, he’s got the charisma of a plank of wood, and looks like he’s one ‘y’all’ away from hillbilly status, but he’s inexplicably popular with women and men alike.

Shooting had been hell - a constant drone of bragging and grandstanding from the young star, while Bradley simply wanted to get the job done. Things had come to an ugly head after an incident at the wrap party - how was Bradley meant to know that the pretty girl in the green dress had been Winter’s date? She had spent half the night by his side, arm draped round his as she laughed at his jokes, and asked polite questions about the good old days. Romeo and Juliet had been her favourite film when she was a child.

That hadn't been a good start. There was nothing Bradley hated more than reminders of the passage of time. It had taken a few drinks to dissolve the growing ache lying low in his stomach.

He hadn’t even thrown the first punch, but he sure as hell got the reprimand as if he did.

It hadn’t been worth it. The girl was too young - caught up in the glitz and glamour of Hollywood - it wasn’t her fault. As a rule, Bradley avoided the young ones. Too much trouble, too much drama, and definitely not what he needed these days. There were occasional exceptions. He was only human. But they were all very legal, and very much gone the next morning.

After Ruthie, he’s no longer in the business of dating to marry. She had been his co-star in Broken Throne, and twenty-four to his thirty-one. She was gorgeous, oozed charisma, and for a little while had allowed Bradley to feel like a somebody again.

There was a time when Bradley would have done anything for her. Given her whatever she wanted. They’d spoken about kids - he’d take a step back to be there, she’d keep working. It was a far more progressive viewpoint than anyone expected from Bradley Bradshaw.

The happiness lasted for about six months. By the time they hit the one-year mark, fighting was a far more common occurrence than sex. They were both at fault. He knew that. But he couldn’t see through any of his anger, especially after being served the divorce papers on set - one of the lowest moments of his life.

Married for less than two years, and she took everything. Accusations of neglect and abuse, while all Bradley wanted was to call time of death on the whole mess.

He was lucky to even keep the house.

She walked away with things he didn't even remember he had. Stocks in Paramount, a $1000 bond, the art collection he'd bought in his twenties.

None of that held a candle to the piano. His dad’s Stenway, around for Bradley’s entire life - and the only thing he brought with him from Virginia. A mainstay in the Paramount apartment, it had taken pride of place in his Mulholland Drive home. Parties never ended without Bradley slipping onto the bench, playing softly until enough people took notice that he could transition to the rollicking crowd-pleasers.

She knew that’s what would hurt him most. He’d offered her the house, he’d offered her his entire bank account. But it was no use. Ruthie Bradshaw felt used, and she intended on making him hurt the way she was.

The piano was gone, and Bradley had to walk past the space where it used to sit every single day. He couldn’t bring himself to put anything where it was meant to be. Somehow, it felt like a betrayal.

The last time he'd seen Ruthie had been in the courthouse, and he intended to keep it that way.

*****

The sunglasses lie low on Bradley’s nose, an apathetic attempt at a disguise, trying to dissuade eager fans from approaching.

He might as well not have bothered.

Across the table sits Natasha, deep red dress cascading over her legs as she lights a cigarette. She’s always been magnetic - it’s a quality that seems to grow with age. She’s had the entire restaurant captivated since she walked in. By default, that means their attention is also on him. He tries not to squirm in his seat.

“How have you been?” She asks, raising an eyebrow as Bradley shrugs nonchalantly, reaching for his scotch. “What - cat got your tongue?”

“There’s nothing much to say. You know what it’s been like.”

She sighs. “You’re too pessimistic. You’ve still got a contract - that’s more than a lot of people.”

“Yeah, for one more picture - and then I’ll be gone. They’re out to drop me as soon as they can.” Any hope Bradley still carries for his career is dissipating with each passing day.

Her lips quirk up as she leans forward, crushing the cigarette. “I might have something to fix that. Do you know Bob Floyd? The writer?”

“The name sounds familiar.”

“He wrote the screenplay for Grapes of Wrath.”

Oh. That’s how Bradley knows him. His expression drops, reaching for his drink. Grapes of Wrath, the latest in a long line of projects that Bradley was barely considered for, before being passed over. For Brigham fucking Lennox.

If Bradley was bad with women, Brigham made him look like a saint. If there was one thing you could count on in this town, it would be his face in the tabloids after each weekend. Bradley pitied the poor suckers who were in charge of trying to get a coherent sentence out of the man.

“Don’t make that face,” Natasha scolds.

“What face?”

“The one you’re making right now. Your ‘woe is me’ face.”

“I don’t have a ‘woe is me’ face,” He retorts. “I just don’t believe in unfounded optimism.”

"Well, anyway - he’s directing his first picture. Pride and Prejudice. Wants you to audition for the lead.”

He scoffs slightly. “I don't audition.”

“You’re not exactly in a position to be making demands.”

“I still have standards though.”

She shrugs. “They'll probably just loan you, anyway. The production’s got no money - they’re desperate for you. But I really think it’s got potential, Bradshaw. At the very least meet with Bob, see if you guys get on.”

Loaning.

Every actor’s worst nightmare. Pretty much exclusively saved for when a studio has no interest in keeping you on as a client, and is trying to run your contract down so they can cut you loose. Occasionally it can be beneficial, a sign that you’re so in demand that everybody wants you for their picture. That hasn’t been the case for Bradley in about five years.

“Besides,” She continues. “I already told him you’d have lunch. Talk about it a little.”

“What if I don’t want to do it?”

He’s being ridiculous. Petty, insolent, everything he used to hate about actors. But after such an abysmal run recently, he feels like he’s earned it - at least a little. He’s given everything to this place, and what does he have to show for it? No family, hardly any money, not even one of those godforsaken statues.

“Then you can kiss your career - or whatever’s left of it - goodbye.”

*****

After some more badgering, Bradley finally agrees to meet Bob Floyd at the Chateau Marmont. A strategic choice on his part - it’s the closest hotel to Mulholland Drive, and he can make a quick getaway in case things go as terribly as he’s expecting them to.

It’s not Floyd’s fault. The kid seems nice, if a little naïve. Apparently Grapes of Wrath hadn’t done much to open his eyes to the realities of Hollywood.

For once, Bradley’s early - not from any kind of punctuality, just so he can get a scotch or two down before the meeting. As soon as you hit drink three or four before a certain time of day, people tend to start raising their eyebrows. This way, Bradley can get the dulling he needs without the director looking down his nose at him.

The chat has been idle thus far, dancing around what they’re really here for. Part of Bradley wishes he would just cut to the chase.

Bob says a name, but Bradley's barely paying attention. The waitress who's been bringing their drinks has batted her eyelashes enough that Bradley figures he'll be able to get her to go home with him after her shift.

She's pretty, around his age, wide doe eyes - it's as close to a sure thing as he gets these days.

“Did you see The Grapes of Wrath?”

Bradley didn't. He'd auditioned for Tom Joad, and hadn't made it past the second round. It is, in his mind, the biggest loss of his life thus far. It would've done more for his career than ten Pride and Prejudice's would.

He's read the book cover-to-cover at least five times - knows the material inside out. There's no world in which Lennox did a better job than he would have done. All he needed was a chance to prove himself.

Bradley shakes his head. He's not a wound-licker - never has been - but that doesn't mean he'll subject himself to watching a film he desperately wanted with every fibre of his being.

“Well, she played Rose Of Sharon - she's good, too. Real innocent like, you know? Perfect ingenue. She'll be playing Kitty. I heard Warner Brothers are thinking about her for Little Women as well. The young one.”

Bradley hums slightly, a vague attempt at feigning interest. Truthfully, were it not for Nat's interference, he wouldn't even be here.

He knows how these things go.

Yes, the script is decent, but Bob Floyd has never directed a picture before in his life. And with next to no budget, he's bound to get steamrolled into whatever the studio wants - likely the same dull, romantic slop they always go for.

“She the lead?”

“What? Kitty? No, she's Elizabeth's younger sister.” Bob's brow furrows, as he examines Bradley's expression. “Nat had said you'd read the book.”

Damn Natasha Trace.

“Oh. Yeah. I have. It's just been a while, got a little mixed up. Kitty. Got it. So who's the lead?”

At this, Bob squirms slightly, and Bradley frowns. “I'm still working that out.”

Perfect. Problems already, and Bradley hasn't even said yes. Not that his opinion really matters. Paramount are desperate to be out of his deal, and he's positive they'd be up for a loan to Warner Brothers if Bob asked.

“This is all well and good, but the studio probably won't agree,” Bradley lies, hoping Bob Floyd is as much of a newcomer as Nat says he is, and has no idea what the studio system is like. “You know what Paramount is like.”

“Well, there’s no harm in asking, right?”

“I haven't auditioned.”

Bob shrugs. “Don't need you to. I know you could do it.”

Interesting. No one has been this sure of Bradley’s abilities since 1929. The confidence is almost jarring, and fully unwarranted.

“I haven’t agreed to take the part.” He raises an eyebrow.

“Are you going to turn it down?” Bob’s tone leads Bradley to believe that Natasha told him far more about his situation than she’d inferred. It puts his hackles up slightly. It’s one thing to be down on your luck. It’s another entirely for the whole world to know about it.

He doesn't need anybody's pity.

Bradley swallows, reaching for another cigarette. “No. I guess not.”

*****

The call comes through the very next morning. He’s barely awake, eyes bleary as the waitress - Patty, he knows now - dresses to leave. Groaning, he gets to his feet, brushing past her and into his study.

“Yeah?”

When he hears Chester Cain’s voice ring down the line, he has to bite back a sigh. Even in his heyday, Cain seemed perpetually out to get him. With a string of failures trailing behind him, the man was no fonder of Bradley these days. An already bad sign.

“Bradshaw - you’re locked in for the loan. We’ll get the paperwork out to you this week, you start filming on the 14th. It’ll be a five week shoot. We'll be in touch.”

“Right. Fine. Yeah. I’ll be there.”

Bradley puts the phone down, letting out a heavy sigh as he turns his gaze towards the window, towards the ever-looming Hollywoodland sign.

It’s going to be a long few months.

Chapter Text

The air feels different in Los Angeles. Most people wouldn’t notice, you don’t think. You can hardly explain it yourself. The slight salt of the sea, the California sun, it’s like the world is opening up at your feet. This town, drawing you in with its charm and allure, until its claws are so deeply embedded that leaving feels like the deepest betrayal.

New York is so impersonal. At any given moment, thousands of people are trying to go about their day, and no one has time for themselves, never mind anyone else. If you didn’t know any better, you’d compare Hollywood to your hometown - tightly knit, and a place of no secrets. Anyone who’s anyone knows everything about everyone. It warms your cheeks slightly. The idea of being known. Well and truly. Intimate with millions, the way most people only experience with a lover. Admired by women, desired by men, loved by all.

While theatre was where you had been born as an artist, spent years honing your craft, you’re ready for brighter pastures. Hollywood. The movies.

You’d always have a soft spot for theatre - without it, you wouldn’t be here. First had come the talent scouts at your high school performance of Romeo and Juliet - that had led to an audition for the newest Broadway production. It had been such a longshot you hadn’t even allowed yourself to be excited. Not even eighteen yet, and auditioning for Broadway. It was all you had ever wanted.

When you got the call to understudy Juliet, your parents had thought there was something wrong with the way you’d screamed as soon as the phone was down. While your mother was thrilled, your father had been less than thrilled at the prospect of sending his seventeen-year-old daughter to New York by herself. It had taken considerable begging to get him to even consider the idea.

Of course, you wore him down eventually.

Largely keeping to the background, trying to learn and absorb without being pushy, half the cast didn’t even know your name when the principal Juliet tore her ACL on opening night. Thrust into the spotlight, a star was born that day.

For two years, you enjoyed consistent employment, and ever growing perks that Broadway could offer as you rose through the ranks. Shakespeare was the mainstay - Juliet, to Cordelia, to Rosalind, you were working your way through them all.

Until May 8th, 1933. The night Beau Simpson came to see King Lear. You were familiar with his work - how could you not be? The man was well on his way to becoming a legend. The only person ever to have two Academy Awards, let alone for the same film. So when he stepped into your dressing room with a job offer, you just about combusted.

He was directing Grapes of Wrath, the newest John Steinbeck. Wanting to know if you’d read it, he'd nodded approvingly at the count (you had just finished round four). It was almost entirely cast, but they’d been struggling with the main character’s sister for weeks now. Rose of Sharon. Her arc is one of the most stirring - transforming from a naïve young girl, to a grieving mother, abandoned by her husband and all too familiar with loss. You were drawn to immediately.

Everyone in Hollywood wanted to be cast. Bradley Bradshaw, Jake Seresin, Natasha Trace, they’d all auditioned. But Beau Simpson wanted you. It was almost too good to be true.

He just had to convince Warner Brothers.

It hadn’t been easy. Seven rounds of auditions, playing against at least twenty Connies, Rose of Sharon’s husband (and the only other role to be cast). Warner Brothers executives maintained their skepticism - sure, you’re pretty talented, but you’d never even been on a film set before. It was too big of a risk.

In all honesty, had it not been for Tom Kazansky, you wouldn’t have a career. For the final call-back, you’d been brought in to read with the entire main cast.

A daunting task, made even worse by the row of Warner Brothers executives eyeing you critically.

The audition had gone well - not your best, by any stretch, but you hoped it was enough to sway the suits, reluctant to put their money in the hands of a novice. You understood it, to an extent. Rose of Sharon was an integral part of the Joad family, yet was still very much a supporting figure. Brigham Lennox and Tom Kazansky starring as Tom Joad and Jim Casy respectively, should have been enough to guarantee a financial success.

You thanked everyone politely, throwing Beau a nervous smile as you left. Only once the door had closed, did you hear the unmistakeable cadence of Kazansky.

“I mean, come on! That’s the fuckin’ girl, right there - why are we still looking?”

You were cast the following day, on a trial basis of $200 a week, with an option for Warner Brothers to extend and option you for more pictures, depending on the success of Grapes of Wrath. Filming was to start in two weeks time, lasting for six weeks across studio lots and the California desert.

It was hard-going, to say the least. Incredibly early call times, with a director who believed that method was the only way to convey suffering on the big screen. If you weren’t at serious risk of heatstroke and dehydration by the end of the day, you weren’t doing it right. The studio executives were breathing down Beau’s neck every minute, tightening the noose on his neck and budget.

Most of the cast kept to themselves and got on with it, figuring that burying their heads in the sand was better than risking their necks. Other than Brigham and Tom, almost everyone else was hoping this would kickstart a long and illustrious career in Hollywood.

Including Bob Floyd, Beau’s protégé who had co-written the film with him. You gravitated towards him immediately. One of the quieter crew members, he had none of the Los Angeles bravado that was already beginning to grate on your nerves.

He cared so deeply for the material, spending hours with you each night, covering the wants and whys of every scene. You learned that he’d grown up in Georgia to a single mother, deciding to move west for college. He’d studied English Literature at UCLA for a few semesters, hanging around the Warner Brothers lot to try and get some kind of part-time work to pay for rent.

But when part-time quickly turned into nearly sixty hours a week, he was left with a decision - give up what might be his only shot at getting his foot in the door, or drop out of college and disappoint his mother in a way he never had before.

After a full week of agonising, the decision was made. Bob Floyd was going to be in the business of movie-making.

Few managed the ascent from Assistant to Writer, but Bob was determined. He’d pinned all the hopes he’d ever accumulated on the golden rays of Hollywood - failure was no longer an option.

It wasn’t until five years later that he managed to slide one of his scripts across the desk of someone that mattered. Overnight, he went from Associate Camera Operator to being in the room. It was all he had ever wanted. Yes, no one listened to him, and his boss took four months to learn his name, but it didn’t matter. Bob was working in Hollywoodland.

Grapes of Wrath was by far the biggest project he’d ever worked on. Most of his credits were sympathy-driven, tacked on at the end of pictures he’d had very little to do with. It certainly wasn’t going to get him where he needed to go.

Just like you, he had something to prove.

And an end goal in sight.

Directing.

Spending the last eight years almost exclusively on film sets had filled him with a hunger for more. It wasn’t derived from a need to control, or to inflict some of the pain he’d suffered over the years on others - it came from a need to create.

Often, while sitting around waiting for a director to make up his mind, Bob would create an entire vision for how the scene would go if he were in charge. Firstly, he wouldn’t cast Jack Winter in anything ever again. That kid was a PR disaster waiting to happen - it was only a matter of time. The studio had nearly cast him as Tom Joad - a decision Bob’s sure would have derailed the entire movie.

He had no gravitas, no style, and questionable literacy skills. While Brigham Lennox could not ever be counted as one of Bob’s favourite people, he was a damn sight better than Winter.

Brigham was another story entirely. Constantly embroiled in fights with both Beau and the studio, it was a miracle the production got anything done.

Nonetheless, everybody persisted, and finally the picture was finished. While you loved Rosasharn with your whole heart, you were relieved to be done. Turns out, making movies wasn’t quite the cinematic dream you’d envisioned.

What’s more, the studio was still unsure about Grapes of Wrath. The Hollywood elite didn’t tend to buy into stories about class consciousness, and the struggles of the poor. It was a gamble - a big one. Opening in just twenty theatres across the country, it was clear Warner Brothers had little faith in the life expectancy of the picture.

But when word-of-mouth began to spread, and showings began selling out three weeks into running, the tides began to change. While critics were torn, the general public loved the saga, seeing themselves in the run-down Joad family, and finding comfort in their journey.

Warner Brothers got a hit, and you got a contract. Four films a year for Warner Brothers for the next three years, at a doubled rate of $400 a week. It was more money than you could even fathom.

The first picture after Grapes of Wrath hadn’t quite gone to plan - Warner Brothers had wanted to capitalise on the alleged chemistry between you and Brigham, and hired you both for their latest crime noir, City of Shadows. Brigham played a hardened detective, reeling after the loss of his wife a few year’s previously. After finding himself deeply embroiled within the mafia, which of course leads him directly to you, the boss’s daughter.

It was contrived, and decidedly not stellar, but you didn’t think it deserved the vitriol it got from critics.

Turns out, the public didn’t buy their favourite brother-sister duo as a couple - the picture flopped, and suddenly your contract felt far less tangible. If you couldn’t open a picture directly after a success, playing opposite one of Hollywood’s biggest leading men, what hopes were there for the rest of your career?

You were officially placed on hold, finding some work in theatre while Warner Brothers worked out how they wanted to use you. A full month of no contact, and you were beginning to assume they were through with you.

You only got paid while you were working, and Los Angeles was expensive. There was only so long you could stick this out.

But one more time, Grapes of Wrath would save your career. Just when you were getting ready to call up Mike Metcalf, tell him ‘thank you for the opportunity, but no thanks’ and scurry back to the relative safety of New York, Bob Floyd called.

He was making his first picture, Pride and Prejudice. A book you’d read countless times, starting from when you were eleven, and had gotten it as a birthday present. The studio were reluctant to fund anything, including the cast. He wanted you for one of the sisters - Kitty or Lydia Bennet.

“Mary’s been cast, and I’d have given you a shot at Elizabeth, but the studio have someone in mind - Jean Carter. They’re already pissed off at me, so I can’t rock the boat, y’know? And you’re really too young for Jane. But I think you'd do well with one of the others.”

After coming in to read - a far less gruelling audition process than Grapes of Wrath - it was decided. You were going to be Kitty Bennet, in Warner Brothers’ Pride and Prejudice.

Now came the difficult part - actually getting the movie made.

*****

You’re not sure you’ll ever tire of the Warner Brothers lot - the water tower overlooking the studio, the sprawling sets covering acres - it’s exactly how you imagined Hollywood looking. Even after spending six weeks here filming just a few months ago, it still feels just as shiny and new as it did the first time you stepped through those gates.

Of course, this time you’re accompanied by a few boxes containing your entire life. Some clothes, pictures, books - everything else was sold. You’re counting on not needing your Sunday best here.

To cut travel costs, the studio had offered you an apartment onsite - deducting just a little from your salary each week. You’d crunched the numbers, and it would save you money in the long run, you hoped.

Most actors avoided the lot housing - considering it a total breach of privacy, and pretty much destroying any chance of a personal life.

For you, that was a less of a consideration. You haven’t really dated since high school, and definitely not in any serious capacity. When you’re working on Broadway and have next-to-no free time, dating is near impossible.

Being in the public eye, you get offers - sometimes more than make you comfortable, but it’s just not your priority. If the Warner Brothers executives want to keep an eye on you, you have no issue with that. You have nothing to hide.

Security give you a key, and you head up to your new home. On the way up the stairs, you round the corner almost directly into a man coming down.

“Shit,” He curses, hand coming out to steady you. “Sorry. My bad.”

“That’s okay,” You reply. “My fault too. Need to watch where I’m going.”

“Are you moving in?” He asks, and you nod. “Oh, great! I’m Reuben. Reuben Fitch. I live in number two.”

You smile, and offer him your own name. “Nice to meet you, Reuben.”

“You look vaguely familiar,” He hums. “What have I seen you in?”

“Um, Grapes of Wrath?”

He shakes his head. “I missed that one- oh, wait - you’re the girl from City of Shadows, right?”

You can’t help but smile, fighting a slight grimace. “That’s the first time I’ve ever been recognised for that movie. I swear I can do better.”

He immediately begins to backtrack. “Hey, I thought you were the best thing in it - way better than Brigham Lennox, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah? You think?”

“Absolutely. Guy's got no charm. Is he as big a sleaze as he seems?”

You snort. “He’s come onto me multiple different times, and because he’s so perpetually drunk he doesn’t ever remember who I am.” Suddenly the box in your arms feels incredibly heavy, and you readjust slightly. Reuben clocks the movement immediately, and reaches out to take it. You throw him a grateful smile, and grab the other one, before you both head upstairs.

The apartment is tiny, barely bigger than your bedroom back in New York, but it’s yours, and that’s what matters. Reuben helps you get set up, moving some tables around to try and maximise the space, and you end the day with your first real actor friend.

He tells you about the pictures he’s working on, how difficult it’s been to break through as a black actor, and what he wants to do in the future.

“I just want to be a romantic lead for once, you know? None of the villain tough guy crap.”

He tells you about Callie across the hall, another recent Warner Brothers hire. The name sounds vaguely familiar, and it isn’t until after he leaves that you realise she’s one of the names Bob mentioned.

She’ll be playing Jane. Your big sister.

It’s all getting far too real. There’s no running back to New York anymore. This is your life.

*****

“Holy shit.”

It’s the only phrase that comes to your mind, as you step onto Stage 14. Transported immediately to 19th-century England, whoever designed these sets needs a raise.

Almost immediately, you’re whisked into fittings, trying out different styles and makeup for Kitty. The Bennet sisters need to compliment each other, not overpower. And as the backups to Lizzie and Jane, Kitty and the others were very much meant to blend.

You get chatting to everyone on set, showing Bob the final looks for approval, when an incredibly familiar figure walks in. Someone you wouldn't have expected in a million years to be on the lot today.

Bradley Bradshaw.

You don’t feel it’s too much of an overstatement to say he defined your teenage years. Every cent of pocket money when you were thirteen went towards seeing his pictures in the theatre. You’re not even sure you would have been so hellbent on acting had you not seen his Romeo and Juliet with Natasha Trace.

There had definitely been a few shows (or all of them) in New York, where you'd pretend your Romeo was actually Bradley. It did wonders for your performance.

He’s more handsome in real life.

It’s not a professional thought, but it’s still the first one that pops into your head.

Taller than he looks on screen, he's let his natural curls grow longer since his last movie. It suits him. The trademark moustache is still there, a mainstay since Springtime Swing. A chain peaks out from under his shirt, and you have to work hard to force your eyes back up to his face.

“Oh he’s here, thank god,” Bob breathes from beside you, in a tone that makes you wonder if he doubted Bradley’s appearance entirely.

“Is-is he in the film?”

Bob’s eyes widen as he turns to look at you. “Did you not know? He’s Darcy.”

You shake your head, gaze returning to Bradley. It makes sense. He's got the broodiness in spades, made even more apparent by the way he's moving, the suspicious way he's eyeing everyone up.

He’s ambling across the set, a redhead by his side. You vaguely recognise her - maybe from the magazines? Either way, she’s pretty. Her proximity, the hand laced through his, doesn’t seem to stop him from paying very close attention to one of the extras, already done up in costume and makeup.

The girl’s face falls just slightly, and your frown.

This is not the Romeo you fell in love with - the one who professed his love to Juliet in the middle of a rainstorm, curls plastered to his neck as he bared his soul.

It's a level of audacity you almost can't believe.

“Oh my god, is that Bradley Bradshaw?” A voice breathes from behind you, and you turn to find a girl behind you.

“Apparently,” You nod, watching as he ignores the redhead entirely for the blonde perched on the scenery. "He's our Darcy."

“God, he’s handsome,” The girl murmurs, a dreamy look crossing her face. “I’m Callie Bassett. Jane Bennet.”

You tell her your name, smiling. “Kitty.”

“Oh, that’s so great! We’re sisters. How fun.”

“I think I live across from you, actually.”

“You’re the girl Reuben was talking about!” She exclaims. “I’m sorry, my mind’s been everywhere the past few days - it’s lovely to meet you. We should have dinner some time.”

“Nice to meet you too,” You reply, before a silence falls as Bradley reaches the small gathering. If you weren’t so nervous, palms dripping with sweat, you’d feel excited. Standing in front of one of your idols, on an equal foot, getting to work with him on just your third picture ever.

“You’re here,” Bob offers by way of greeting. “I’m glad traffic wasn’t too bad.”

“It’s a twenty-minute drive,” Bradley replies, decidedly unimpressed. “Not exactly Everest.”

“Oh. Yes, of course, how silly - you just never know these days, with the traffic and everything-”

“Listen. I’m not out to screw you around here, Floyd, so I’m gonna be straight with you. I’m here as a favour to Natasha Trace. Nothing more. This is a job, and I intend to treat it as such. I just want to get my fitting done, so I can go home. We don’t need to be friends.”

It takes Bob a second to process, shooting a brief glance at a man standing over Bradley’s shoulder. “Um, yeah. Okay. Wardrobe’s that way. We’ll be here when you’re ready.”

He’s gone almost before Bob’s even finished speaking, a curt nod sent in the crowd’s direction. You get a more apologetic look from his girlfriend, before she goes jogging after him.

"Well, I guess they say you should never meet your heroes," You mumble, earning a snort from Callie.

“What the fuck is his problem?” The man behind Bradley lets out a low whistle, and it’s only when he steps forward into the light that you recognise him as Jake Seresin - he’s been on a good run recently, definitely on the rise as a new leading man. He’s playing Mr Bingley.

The easy-going smile, the charm radiating from his every move, he’s going to give Bradley a run for his money in this picture.

“He was nicer at lunch,” Bob muses. “Still not super enthusiastic, but not hostile either. I wonder what’s changed.”

“Maybe he heard about Jean?” A third man pipes up, this time from across the stage. Seeing some confused glances, he offers a wave. “Javy Machado. Warner Brothers rep for the production.”

“That’s not it,” Bob shakes his head. “I kept it quiet from both of them - with the aim that they’ll see each other, and realise it isn’t that big an issue.”

Jean Carter. Bob’s Elizabeth. You haven’t seen her in much, but you know from your tabloid perusing that she and Bradley dated for about six months, before an incredibly acrimonious breakup. No one really knows what happened, or how much they dislike each other these days, but it appears Bob’s willing to take his chances.

“You’re telling me you bet the entire success of this production on Bradley Bradshaw’s ability to keep it in his pants? Bold move, Floyd. I mean, god, couldn’t you have cast someone else?” Jake’s voice drops to a drawl, as he takes a seat. He flashes a smile at Callie, and you realise they’re already acquainted. Perhaps more than acquainted, if Callie’s flush is anything to go by. "The guy hasn’t made a good picture since his Oscar nomination. It was like he reached the top and decided to just never do anything of substance again."

You can’t even blame her. If you had to spend weeks on end pretending to be in love with someone, you’re pretty sure you’d be in the same boat. There was a while during Grapes of Wrath where you’d convinced yourself you were in love with the man who played Connie, Rosasharn’s husband. After one brief make-out at the wrap party, you quickly came to your senses and realised you were just in too deep. You had to keep some distance from your characters, to keep them from swallowing you whole.

“Maybe we’re being hard on him-” Bob reasons, but Javy shakes his head.

“You’re too optimistic, man. Guy’s a trainwreck.”

“Give him a chance. It’s day one. First days are always rough.”

“You don’t see anyone else being a dick - not Callie, or - I’m sorry, what’s your name?” Javy turns to you.

You clear your throat, telling him in a far quieter cadence than usual. Definitely not the cool, collected femme fatale image you'd been hoping to project today. That girl wouldn't be made nervous by simply the appearance of Bradley Bradshaw. She'd know exactly what to say, how to act - he'd maybe even find her attractive, alluring. “Kitty.”

“Good to meet you, kid. But back to my point - you don’t see the girls or Jake pulling that shit. What gives him the right to?”

“The fact he’s a bigger star than the rest of us combined?” It’s the first time you’ve heard any kind of annoyance from Bob Floyd. Even in the middle of the desert, under the worst filming conditions possible, he was kind and polite at all times. “Warner Brothers are basically betting on this failing - Jean’s great, but she can’t open pictures. We need Bradshaw.”

“He’s had four flops in a row - what makes you think he can open anymore?”

Bob swallows nervously. “Call it faith.”

"Or stupidity."

"Aren't they the same thing?"

You manage to avoid Bradley. He seems intent on flirting with everyone on set, bar you. It's not that you ever thought you'd have a chance with him - far from it, but the lack of acknowledgement stings. When he's a large part of why you're even an actor to begin with, you'd rather not know him at all.

But somehow, things manage to go from bad to worse before the day's out. It’s another hour before Jean arrives, floating onto the lot in a dress you can only describe as fairy-tale. Even before makeup, and costumes, she looks the part.

Already looks like Elizabeth.

If the tiniest part of you had been hoping to win Elizabeth during the audition process, you felt quite the fool watching Jean now. Of course she was going to be Elizabeth. And of course you were going to be the little sister - childish and naïve.

Unfortunately, before Bob can even stand, move to greet her, Bradley emerges from round the corner, in full Darcy garb.

“Oh. Oh no. Absolutely not,” Jean begins, taking a step back, as her smile drops. “What the hell is he doing here?”

“Long time no see,” Bradley drawls.

You frown, glancing at Callie. She just shrugs.

“Uh, Jean, Bradley's playing Mr Darcy,” Bob starts. “Your agent said it wouldn't be a problem.”

A silence descends over the cast as Jean considers his words.

Maybe the studio’s right. Maybe this isn’t worth it. If this is day one, and there are already sizeable cracks in the production’s foundation, there’s no way you’re all making it to week four.

“Well, my agent doesn’t know shit then,” She snaps. “I’m not doing this.”

“That’s not how it works-” Bradley begins, but Jean cuts him off, spinning on her heel to face him.

“I don’t want to hear a single other word out of you - you hear me? God, you’re such a piece of shit-”

“I’m not the one throwing a hissy fit because I don’t like my co-star.” He’s frowning, but can’t quite mask the amusement in his expression. You wish desperately you could see something funny in the situation - instead, all you can see is your career washing down the drain.

“Oh, we’re past dislike, Bradshaw. We passed dislike when you ignored my calls for a month after proposing to me, and then hooked up with my best friend!”

Bradley’s face drops into a scowl, while your lips part in surprise. Everyone’s frozen, surrounding Jean and Bradley, almost too scared to move.

Jake lets out a low whistle, before laughing as Bradley’s glare is trained on him. “Not your finest move, man.”

“Go fuck yourself, Seresin - that’s not what happened-”

“Yes,” Jean interrupts. “It is.”

“Can everyone just calm down, please?” Bob tries, but it’s no use. Tensions are running too high, egos flying too close to the sun.

“I quit.”

The words ricochet around the lot, a few gasps and murmurs escaping.

“Jean, the studio locked you in for this - they might suspend you-”

“I don’t care. I’m not working with him. I’d rather be unemployed.” Her eyes soften slightly, seeing Bob’s obvious discomfort. “I’m sorry, Bob. I really am. But I just won’t.”

With that, she’s gone, making an immediate beeline for her trailer, leaving Pride and Prejudice torn in two, with no leading lady.

It takes all of thirty seconds for all hell to break loose.

“Oh god, what are we gonna do?” Callie murmurs. “They're going to shut us down. They're goin-”

“No. No they're not,” Bob replies, but the wave in his tone gives him away. “We'll get another Lizzie, it'll be fine.”

“Who?” Javy asks, hands on his hips. “Look man - I want this to work as much as you do, but Warner Brothers are gonna be so pissed. They're already pissed at the amount they've spent on this, they won't pay anymore-”

“The kid can do it.”

It's the firmest Bob's voice has sounded all day, his eyes trained on you. Everyone else follows his gaze, with Bradley letting out an incredulous “Really?”

“What?” You toss a glare in his direction, before turning back to Bob. “No, I can't-”

“Yes, you can. Rosasharn was a way bigger part than Kitty-”

“That was totally different-”

“Let's just call time of death on this thing now,” Bradley interjects. “Cut our losses-”

“Javy. Would the studio accept her as Lizzie?” Bob continues to pace, while Javy thinks for a second.

“If she works for the same salary, I don’t see why not.”

Your head is spinning. The weight of everyone’s gaze is boring into you, and if you were more in control of your body, you think your legs might give out. As it stands, all you can do is stare at Bob, lips parted slightly in disbelief.

“Will you do it?” Bob asks, and you have to fight back an incredulous laugh.

Even if you never worked again, it would all be worth it to play Elizabeth. Few actresses ever got to take on a role like that, so multi-faceted and independent from the men in her story.

She doesn't serve Darcy, she has meaningful, substantial relationships with her family, and she’s been your hero since you were a child.

It’s the opportunity of a lifetime. Even if you have to put up with the ever-disappointing Bradley Bradshaw.

“Yes. I’ll do it.”

Chapter Text

“Wait. Hold on. They're all British?”

“Jesus Christ, Jake,” Bob groans, head in his hands. “You auditioned with a British accent!”

“Yeah, but I thought that was just like a fun quirk! Let’s try it British this time!”

You’ve been filming for almost twelve hours now. Everyone’s tired, everyone’s beyond stressed, and Jake’s comment pushes Bob over the edge. Jake’s only been on set for forty-five minutes. It’s been a Bennet sisters day. But Bob wants to get a start on one of the party sequences before the light goes. Given that Bradley’s almost an hour late, you feel your chances are growing thinner with each passing minute.

“Why the fuck would I say that?” He snaps, voice escalating rapidly in pitch.

“I don’t know, man,” Jake replies, his own hackles raising slightly. “Directors can be fuckin’ weird like that.”

“Has anyone but the kid read this goddamn book?”

The studio are less than impressed with the progress already. Somehow, on day one, you’re running behind. Javy’s a nice guy, but ultimately his eyes are on the money. Not the picture.

If this thing doesn’t start coming together sooner rather than later, Pride and Prejudice might not even make it to theatres.

Jake and Bob settle into an argument, each one’s voice raising in pitch with every remark. You sigh, resting your chin on your hands as you lean forward, on the floor of the Bennet House set. You had thought Grapes Of Wrath was as chaotic as a production could be. You’re finding yourself proven more and more wrong as the day goes on.

“What’s gotten into them?” A voice murmurs from behind you.

Flinching, you spin round to almost collide with Bradley, crouching by you. You have no idea how he even managed to get on set without someone noticing. Despite yourself, your eyes begin to soften slightly - it appears the deep-rooted crush isn’t going to go away quite as quickly as you would’ve liked. It’s only when you notice the girl standing behind him, leaning back against the wall, when you catch yourself.

It’s a different girl to the one he had last week.

God, you’re so stupid. Letting him pull you in with those pretty eyes, and nice smile, and big arms, when actually he’s just like the rest of them.

“You’re late,” You mutter, turning your gaze back to Bob and Jake, seemingly now at an impasse.

“No I’m not - it’s six-”

“It’s nearly eight.”

Bradley bristles slightly at your tone. “Traffic was bad.”

“Thought it was only a twenty-minute drive?” You reply, parroting his statement from your first meeting. “’Not exactly Everest’, after all.”

“Great - glad to see everyone's in a shitty mood today.”

“Javy was coming from San Francisco today, and he still managed to be on time.”

“Javy’s a square,” Bradley murmurs, rolling his eyes as he gets to his feet. “Whatever. I was just trying to be nice. I need to go to wardrobe.”

With that, he’s gone, the perky blonde following behind in his wake.

*****

“I just don’t know why the moustache has to go,” Bradley argues pointedly, slumped in his chair across from Bob.

Bradley still hasn’t been in a single scene. Apparently, he and Bob had come to an agreement last week about losing the facial hair. Bradley conveniently seems to have forgotten that conversation, claiming that he can’t lose his ‘staple’.

Bob looks like he’s about to snap again. Going straight from arguing with Jake to Bradley, you wonder if he’s regretting his life choices. You think you might be.

“Bradley,” Bob sighs. “We’re in 1800s England. You cannot have that thing on your lip.”

“Who cares if the picture isn’t a hundred percent accurate?”

Bradley’s greeted with a chorus of ‘me’s, from you, Bob, Callie, Jake, and the other Bennet sisters.

Some lucky extra had been plucked from obscurity to play Kitty after you got promoted - a dream in most scenarios, perhaps a career-ending nightmare in this one. While you’re definitely most drawn to Callie, the girls playing the other sisters all seem nice too.

But if you thought your infatuation with Bradley was bad, Carmen - Bob’s Lydia - blows you out of the water.

She’s the oldest of you all - though she doesn’t look it. And she takes every opportunity available to sidle up to Bradley. He hasn’t shown much interest in reciprocation yet, but you’re sure it’s coming.

“If you don’t shave the moustache off in the next twenty minutes, Warner Brothers is losing a thousand dollars for wasted time. You really want to explain that to the higher-ups?” Javy interjects, decidedly unimpressed.

Sensing he isn’t going to win this one, Bradley finally concedes, allowing himself to be lead back to makeup. Despite the distinct lack of facial hair when he returns, he seems in slightly better spirits. The rest of the night’s shoot is relatively painless.

Beginning the walk back across the lot, you let out a sigh. You survived day one. You just have to do that thirty-three more times. That’s surely manageable, right?

Bob aptly decided to start with one of Darcy and Elizabeth’s early scenes, where they still very much don’t like each other. Not a far cry from the state of your relationship with Bradley.

The animosity comes easily, and you come out ahead of schedule on the other end.

Turns out it’s really easy to pretend you hate Bradley Bradshaw.

You do however, miss the moustache a little. But you'd rather die a painful death than ever admit that to him.

The cast falls into a routine over week one - not always friendly, not always civil, but it’s working. Bob relaxes into the role of director a little more, while you all begin to find your characters.

There’s a small part of you that starts to believe that this could be a success.

Until Friday.

You’ve been up since dawn, filming most of the non-Bradley scenes - you’ve found the scenes with Callie to be the most pleasant so far, drawing from your ever-growing real life friendship.

Unfortunately, now you’ve moved onto one of the balls - an important part involving almost all of the main characters.

After arriving late, Bradley’s spent the entire time on set checked out. Seizing her opportunity, Carmen’s been making her way over, take by take, until she can strike up a conversation.

You have to bite back bile, focusing your attention on the scene in front of you instead.

He’s incredibly unprepared - knowing next to zero lines, and looks beyond bored even when the cameras are rolling. Not the worst trait for Darcy, but you’re still pissed off.

He might be the biggest star here, by a considerable margin, but it doesn’t give him the right to treat the rest of you like dirt.

You’re not even sure how you’re going to get through the more romantic scenes. Not when he spends all his time between scenes chatting up every woman on this set but you.

You last fourteen takes. When Bradley flubs his lines for the fifteenth time, all you can see is red.

“I need a break,” You bark, feeling the tell-tale signs of a migraine prickling in your periphery.

“Are you sure?” Bob begins, wringing his hands together. “I really think it was almost there-”

“I don’t think he knows anything about this fucking book,” You scowl, pointedly keeping your gaze on Bob, instead of the man next to you. “I’m sick of it.”

“I did recommend last week that everyone should get a copy-”

“Well, he hasn’t. Clearly.”

Bradley scoffs. “I have a name. Everyone has off-days. We can’t all be perfect.”

You laugh, sarcastic and low. “Off-days? You’ve been here for a week, and you haven’t been on once. It gets to a point where you’ve got to wonder if you’ve even got it anymore.”

“Listen, Lizzie-”

“You are such a hypocrite! That's not my name,” You finally snap. “What’s my name?”

He has the decency to at least look a little embarrassed. “It’s uh- it’s-”

Jake lets out a snort. “Wow. Bad look, man-”

“Shut the fuck up! This doesn’t involve you, Jake.”

“Bradley,” You say firmly, voice low. “Do you know my name?”

Bradley curses, eyes darting around the crew - as if anyone’s fond enough of him to even try and bail him out. “I guess not.”

The admission hurts more than you thought it would. Here you both are, bringing one of the most iconic love stories of all time to life, and he can’t be bothered to learn your name, or a single thing about you. You could be replaced tomorrow, and you’re fairly certain he wouldn’t even notice.

Even when Elizabeth and Darcy were at their worst, you can’t imagine them hitting these lows.

Twenty-two-year-old you can cope with it. Had sixteen-year-old you spent a week with Bradley Bradshaw and then found out he didn’t even know your name? You’re pretty sure it would have ruined her life.

Clenching your jaw, you turn to Bob. “I want to do the scene with Jane tomorrow. In their bedroom.”

“But-”

“I’ve had enough tonight. You can do Bingley and Darcy, or fucking anything that doesn't involve me.”

You don’t wait for a response, moving as quickly as possible away from the set without breaking into a run. The period dress weighs you down, the corset suddenly feeling all too constricting.

You make it to your dressing room before the tears start flowing.

Your tear ducts continue to betray you, until Callie pokes her head round the door. “Oh, honey,” She sighs, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. “You can’t let him get to you.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” You mumble, dabbing at your eyes. “He’s such a dick, and I know that - but my brain seems to only want to see him as th-this guy that I loved as a teenager.”

“He was going to come after you,” Callie replies softly. “But Bob told him to leave you alone. I think he really does feel bad.”

“If I never see him again, it’ll be too soon.”

“You know,” She begins. “That’s how Elizabeth felt about Darcy at first-” Seeing your look, she trails off. “Nevermind. Ignore me. You want to go home?”

You nod, and Callie begins to untie your corset, fingers deft.

“First weeks are always rough - things will look up. Trust me. Fifty years from now, you’ll look back on this experience fondly. Even if it doesn’t feel like it now.”

“I wish I had your optimism,” You snort. "If this thing is anything less than a disaster, I'll be impressed."

*****

You don’t realise how common forty-piece orchestras are until you start going to Hollywood parties. Crammed in every crevice of these mansions - the noise is overpowering. Armed with nothing but a dress you’d found in a vintage store on Sunset Boulevard, you’d agreed to come with Reuben to his director’s party.

With both of you being so new to the scene, he figured it was better to have some back-up. You’re just glad to get off of the lot.

What had started out as a dream come true now feels more constricting with every passing day. It doesn’t help that Jake and Bradley speed off each night to their Mulholland Drive homes, leaving you and Callie to trudge across the street.

And that’s only on the nights Callie isn’t spending with Jake - an increasingly common occurrence. You’re happy for her. You are. Jake’s a nice guy, if a little arrogant.

You just hope he doesn’t break her heart.

You stick to Reuben’s side, allowing him to introduce you to his colleagues, offering some moral support. Some producers make their way over - you vaguely recognise them from the lot. Their eyes are sharp, hawks tracing the neckline of your dress.

It’s like being in a fishbowl.

Word has obviously gotten out about Pride and Prejudice - everyone wants to know about the girl who replaced Jean. The girl the entire picture is relying on.

Their words are kind, encouraging, but the predatory gaze sends shivers down your spines, making you tuck into Reuben’s side, arm through his. Maybe if they think you’re with him, you’ll get left alone.

You’re just about to call it a night, tell Reuben you’re going to get a cab back home, when Bradley Bradshaw swans in, a trail of girls following behind.

You wish you could say he doesn’t look good, but you’d be lying. Perfectly tailored suit, curl hanging over his forehead, you can feel your sixteen-year-old self short-circuiting.

Everyone’s attention is immediately drawn to him, and not just because of the girls.

Bradley Bradshaw is a movie star. Totally undeniably.

It doesn’t matter how many flops he has - how much money he loses studios - you can’t teach the kind of charisma that comes so naturally to him.

He makes brief rounds, smiling and saying hello, before he spots you. Brushing off the girl on his arm, he begins to make his way across the room, heading straight for you.

“I’m gonna go get more champagne,” Reuben says, stepping away before you can stop him.

“Wait-”

It’s too late. Reuben is gone, and you have to face Bradley by yourself.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” Bradley says, slowing to a stop at your side. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine. I was about to leave.” It’s a reply that does not invite further conversation. You don’t have the energy for managing Bradley tonight.

“That your boyfriend?” He cocks his head, eyes trailing down Reuben’s form as he grabs more drinks.

“We’re just friends,” You reply. “I would ask if you’re here with someone, but you appear to be here with half of Hollywood.”

“Ouch,” He lets out a low whistle. “Had that one ready to go.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Can you blame me?”

“I guess not. Listen, kid,” Bradley sighs. “I said I was sorry. Really. Lizzie suits you, I was wrapped up in myself, it’s no excuse.”

“The name wasn’t the problem.”

“Huh?”

“Lizzie. The name. It’s the attitude. Your attitude.”

“Right,” Bradley begins, seemingly at a loss for words. You’re not sure that’s ever happened to him before. “Well-”

“It was really rude.” You cross your arms, trying to ground yourself a little. You can do this. One night’s pain, to make Bradley get his act together for the rest of the shoot. Maybe a taste of his own medicine is what he needs.

“Yeah,” He murmurs. “I know.”

“But you were the one who said this was just a job, right?”

“I mean, yeah, but-”

“Then it’s no harm, no foul,” You reply, smile tight. “We don’t have to like each other. We just need to tolerate each other, and pretend like we’re in love for short bursts.”

“Come on-”

“I don’t know what your acting ability is like these days, given I haven’t seen much of it this week, but I think I can manage that on my end.”

You don’t give him the chance to reply, turning on your heel immediately. Your legs are trembling enough, you don’t need to add a face-to-face confrontation.

“Kid!” His voice calls, and you grit your teeth slightly, slowing to a stop. Still not your real name.

“What?” You reply, tone clipped.

“I bought the book. I’ll have it read for filming next week.”

A heat blossoms low in your stomach - just relief, you’re sure. Relief at the idea of a peace offering, at the idea that filming might not be quite as terrible as it has been. Nothing else.

You give him a small nod, before heading back to Reuben, who’s managed to find Callie. There’s an air of amusement hanging over both of them.

“Bradshaw looks shellshocked - what the hell did you say to him?”

“It doesn’t matter,” You mumble, trying to focus on the champagne you’ve just been handed. “I kind of just want to go home.”

“Are you sure?” Callie asks, frowning. “I just got here. Was looking forward to spending some time with you.”

“I’m really tired,” You admit. “And I don’t really feel like being in the same room as Bradshaw right now. I’ve had enough of him for one week.”

When you turn your gaze back to Bradley, his arm is draped around the girl’s shoulder, his head dipped low as he murmurs into her ear. Your stomach twists.

He’s all talk.

You’re going to arrive at work on Monday, and he’s going to have the exact same attitude. And probably a new fling to top things off.

He probably doesn’t know that girl’s name either. But you’re sure it won’t stop him from sleeping with her-

“You okay?” Reuben frowns, following your eyes straight to Bradley. “Oh. I see. A little set fling you haven’t told me about?”

“What? I haven’t slept with him,” You stammer.

“But you want to.”

You scowl, pulling your gaze away, and back to Reuben. “You're a dick.”

“And you're in denial.”

You can't listen to this anymore. "I'm calling a cab. I'll see you tomorrow."

You hear one final call from Reuben, as you make your way towards the exit.

"Stop lying to yourself!"

*****

Elizabeth offers the young girl a curtsy, as Mr Darcy enters, eyes softening just slightly as they fall upon his sister.

“Miss Bennet,” Darcy says, gesturing over at the young woman standing in front of her. “This is my sister, Miss Georgiana.”

Georgiana’s smile grows ever wider, as she glances between the two. “My brother has told me so much about you,” She gushes, hands clasped at her front. She somehow seems even younger than Mr Darcy described. “I feel as if we are friends already.”

Touched by the young girl’s eagerness, Elizabeth smiles. “Thank you - what a beautiful pianoforte.”

“My brother gave it to me,” Georgiana explains, barely hidden glee dancing across her face as she looks up at him. Their bond is clear - pure in a way that makes Lizzie’s heart ache. “He shouldn’t have-”

“-I should have,” Darcy interrupts, a good-natured roll of his eyes.

“Oh, very well then,” Georgiana concedes, letting out a light laugh.

Darcy’s attention is turned back to Elizabeth, voice lowering as if the two are sharing a private joke. “Easily persuaded, is she not?”

Despite herself, Lizzie smiles. “Your unfortunate brother once had to put up with my playing for a whole evening,” She tells Georgiana.

“But he says you play so well!” She protests, brow furrowing slightly.

“Then he has perjured himself most profoundly,” Lizzie laughs, gaze locking on Darcy. Time slows for just a moment before he speaks again, cheeks tinting red.

“No, I think I said you ‘played quite well’.” His voice is quieter than usual, his cadence muted as he stumbles for words.

“’Quite well’ is not ‘very well’,” Elizabeth laughs. “I suppose I am satisfied-”

“Cut!” Bob yells, bringing everything to a halt. “That was great guys - the light’s gone tonight, but we’ll pick up where we left off tomorrow.”

The camera stops rolling, and the illusion fades. You’re gone before Bradley can even look at you, hurrying towards your dressing room.

Turns out throwing yourself into the role does nothing to quell the storm brewing in your heart.

Chapter Text

“Can you guys please at least try and pretend that you like each other?” Bob sighs, getting up from the director’s chair. “I’ve gotten better performances from inanimate objects than you two today.”

You huff slightly, pulling back from Bradley. This is hour three of the love confession, and you’ve felt every second of it. Each take has been stilted and awkward - barely passable, and certainly not what you’re both capable of.

But the prolonged proximity to Bradley is making you feel slightly delirious. The encounter at the party has been on your mind all weekend, the vision of Bradley seemingly genuinely sorry - you wish you could erase it all.

He didn’t bring a girl to set today. It’s the first time that’s happened since you started filming, and you’re desperately trying not to overthink it.

It’s probably not a great idea to have your date watch you confess love to another woman on repeat. For three hours.

Neither of you reply, entirely unable to offer up an excuse for the lacklustre efforts.

“You were great last week!” Bob continues. “What the hell is wrong?”

A mumbled ‘I don’t know’ is thrown from Bradley’s direction, while you just shrug. Something about that party has you off your game, and you can’t even put your finger on why.

Nothing happened. You and Bradley still aren’t friends, despite the strange impasse you seem to have arrived at.

“Well, you’ve got an hour to work it out. Go rehearse, and I’ll do some setting shots.”

*****

Bradley’s dressing room is tidier than you would’ve expected. One of the cottages across from the lot, it’s well-kept, and full of books. You make note of the copy of Pride and Prejudice by the couch, dog-eared and doodled. You wonder what he’s scribbled in the margins.

Suddenly feeling slightly self-conscious, you perch on the edge of the couch, legs tense.

“We should…” Bradley begins. “I uh, guess we should run the scene.”

“I think Bob might burst a blood vessel if we don’t get our act together.”

Despite everything, something about the privacy of the dressing room allows the scene to run just a little more smoothly. You relax into it a little, shuffling slightly closer to Bradley with each take.

He really can be a good Darcy when he puts his mind to it. In between run-throughs, you get to talking. He tells you a little about his mom, how he remembers her reading it when he was little. He thinks she would have liked seeing him in this picture.

He doesn’t have any siblings, but he feels quite protective over the girl playing Georgiana.

He thinks this might be the best script he’s read in years.

It all begins to click. Something shifts, and the scene starts to work. Starts to feel real.

“You have bewitched me body and soul,” He murmurs, voice soft as he looks at you through his eyelashes. “And I love and love and love you. I never wish to be parted from you, from this day on.”

Your breath hitches in your throat, your next line escaping you entirely. Instead, the room goes quiet, and he makes a slight movement, hand moving to rest on your knee.

Bradley Bradshaw is about to kiss you.

You should pull back.

Every girl you’ve seen him with flashes before your eyes. How, in the span of just a few weeks, he’s brought more girls to set than you’ve had dates in your entire life.

But when he leans in further, all reason leaves you, and you find yourself closing the distance.

It takes a single second for your mind to fall apart. Fisting the fabric of his shirt, like you’re scared he’s going to vanish as soon as you let go. Except his hands find a home on your waist, and his body is suddenly braced over yours, caging you in.

It’s messy and uncoordinated, a prayer mumbled long ago making its way to fruition. You should feel cornered by his presence. Instead your arms drape across his shoulders, and you try desperately to pull him in closer, as close as he’ll allow.

Your hair is tumbling down from its pins, breathing coming in short gasps as your lips part. His tongue traces the seam of your mouth, and you whimper into him.

He finally pulls back slightly, just long enough to turn his attention to your jaw. The angle is slightly awkward, the couch in his dressing room being too small for one person to lie comfortably, nevermind whatever this is. Your hands move to his hair, tugging gently.

The groan he lets out at the movement goes straight to your core.

“God, kid,” He mumbles. He readjusts, arms wrapping round your abdomen and pulling you with him. Braced across his thighs, he’s still kissing you as his hands move to the tie on your corset. Chest-to-chest, you can feel his heart thumping erratically through the shirt.

Everything comes crashing back down to reality when a knock sounds at Bradley’s door. You both freeze, cold rushing through your veins.

This is bad. This is really bad.

“Are you guys ready to shoot? Bob wants you back on set as soon as possible.”

“Y-yeah,” You stammer, pushing yourself off of Bradley’s lap. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Eyes wide, you glance at him, almost hoping you’ll see some reflection of regret, something to make you feel better about practically stumbling across the room to put any kind of distance between you both.

Instead, all you see is a furrowed brow and parted lips, a picture of confusion.

“Honey-”

“We should get back to set,” You stammer, fidgeting with a ribbon on your dress - one that Bradley had just been holding onto, using it to pull you against him. “They probably can’t get anything done without us.”

He goes to speak again, before thinking better of it. Lips pursed slightly, he nods. “Okay. Whatever you want.”

Relieved by his cooperation, you let out a breath. The two of you stare at each other for a moment longer, before you finally move.

The walk back to set feels like an eternity. Continually tripping on the skirts of your dress, it’s all you can do to stay upright.

You just kissed Bradley Bradshaw. Or he kissed you.

Either way, you’ve officially become ‘one of the many’. An onset fling that he’ll have discarded and forgotten about by next week.

Reuben was right.

You couldn’t even make it to the end of filming without giving into his charm.

Deep down, you think you’re maybe just grateful that you make the cut. It’s a demeaning thought, one your mother would undoubtedly berate you for - but having spent a large part of your life being passed over romantically, the attention isn’t entirely unwanted.

It’s an odd phenomenon. The curls of jealousy tighten round your neck every time he shows up with a different woman, and yet you’re so eager to push him away when he gets too close.

You’re positive the guilt is written all over your face when you get back to the set, but no one comments on it. A few minutes later, Bradley joins you, face flushed and hair mussed.

He barely looks at you, muttered apologies as he resumes his place.

The afternoon is no better than the morning. If that had been awkward, this is downright torturous. Neither of you can even get the lines out, much less summon up any kind of believable emotion. There’s none of the passion from just twenty minutes ago. Nothing that even begins to resemble what passed between the two of you in Bradley’s dressing room.

“Jesus Christ,” Bob groans, rubbing his temple weakly. “Would you rather we did something else for the rest of the day? Try again next week?”

You nod, trying to fight the heat rising to your cheeks. “I think that’s a good idea.”

*****

Bradley hasn’t slept in two nights. He has no idea what’s wrong with him, why a single kiss has gotten him so bent out of shape.

Maybe it’s just withdrawal. Some kind of post-divorce blues delayed by a year or two, only to resurface at the first sign of intimacy with a co-star.

It’s how he fell in love with Catherine. And with Ruthie.

But as much as you’ve been on his mind, it would never work.

You’re too young for him, and he’s not looking for anything.

There’s no point. Relationships lead to marriage, and marriage leads to divorce, and losing one of the only possessions that ever held any meaning for him.

The gaping hole in his living room where his dad’s piano once sat continues to haunt his every move.

Besides, you’d freaked out more than he had. He knows regret when he sees it - it was written all over your face.

He needs to get over it. Get out of the house. So he heads to Sunset, to the Trocadero, with every intention of picking up a girl, and fucking it out of his system.

For the first time since his divorce, he goes home alone.

*****

“We’re almost two weeks into filming, you can’t just scrap everything!”

“Floyd, listen,” Mike Metcalf sighs, placing his glasses down on the desk in front of him. “I like you, I do-”

“I feel like there’s a but coming here,” Bob replies, voice deadpan.

“Don’t be like that. You know what this business is like. There are no guarantees.”

“If you shut the picture down, you’re guaranteeing Warner Brothers a loss. But if you just let us finish, this thing could make you guys a lot of money.”

Mike holds a finger up to cut Bob off, before reaching for the phone. “Can you send someone to send Bradshaw and the kid over? We’re having a talk with Floyd.”

Bob frowns. “Why are you getting them?”

“Because,” He begins, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I have figured out a way to save your ass.”

“I wasn’t aware it needed saving.”

“All the more reason why you should be on your knees thanking me, then. Warner Brothers wants to shut down your picture. That’s a fact.”

“Okay… so how do we keep it going?”

“Warner Brothers haven’t had a good affair for years. But neither have the other studios. Not since Bradley and Ruth. But if we put him and the kid together, get them photographed, the public is going to go wild.”

Bob snorts. “Good luck with that one. They hate each other.”

*****

Your palms are sweating. Despite multiple assurances from Bob that nothing is wrong, you can’t help but feel that you’ve done something wrong.

It takes them all of two minutes to launch into their pitch.

The film is going to lose money. The studio doesn’t want to pay out anymore. The shoot is going to run long, and the picture isn’t going to get finished.

Unless you and Bradley pretend to be in love.

“We want you two to be seen out together. Dinners, parties, Bradley’s house. Anywhere there’s a camera - you two need to look loved up.”

“Like… a relationship?” You frown, doing your best to keep your gaze trained ahead, away from Bradley.

“Exactly. Now, we don’t care what either of you do in your private life. But if this picture is going to get made, it needs a hell of a lot more publicity than what it’s getting right now. And there’s nothing the public love more than a couple to root for.”

“I-I don’t know about that-”

“We’ll do it,” A voice interjects. Bradley's.

“What?” Your voice comes out far weaker than you'd like, a wobble giving away your nerves.

As if suddenly remembering he isn't the only one making decisions, guilt flashes across Bradley's face. "If you don't want to-"

"N-no. It's fine."

There's no choice here. Not really. Not if you want to still have a job tomorrow.

“What do you want your terms to be?” Metcalf asks, eyes flickering between you both.

“Terms?” You ask.

“Rules,” Bradley replies. “Boundaries of the relationship. What we’re comfortable doing in public.”

“Bradley’s a seasoned pro at this,” Metcalf smiles, and you have to fight back a grimace. Even in fake relationships you’re still one of many.

It shouldn’t bother you as much as it does. Bradley’s thirteen years older than you - of course he’s going to have more life experience. By the time he was twenty-one he was a household name, while you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve been recognised outside of the studio lot.

“I-I don’t know,” You reply, voice shaking slightly. This is all too much to process - the idea of making any kind of decision right now makes you want to throw up.

“We don’t have to decide anything today.” Bradley’s tone is soft as he leans forward, forcing himself into your eyeline. “There’s no rush, kid.”

One of the other producers clears his throat. “There’s some rush-”

“There’s no rush,” Bradley repeats, shooting the other man a glare. “Whatever you feel comfortable with, that’s what we’ll do, okay? Hell, if you don’t want to do this at all, we’ll figure something else out.”

You know that’s a lie. The executives have said as much. If you and Bradley don’t do this, and do it well enough to drum up some interest from the public, you’re getting shut down.

Hundreds of people will be out of a job, and you can kiss your career goodbye if you can't pull through.

You nod slightly, biting your lip. “Can I think about it? And we can decide tomorrow?”

“We’d rather get this sorted-”

Bradley’s interrupting immediately. “Yeah. Of course.”

You shoot him a small smile, as convincing as you can muster, as the conversation returns to Bob and the producers. Your gaze stays fixed on the wall in front of you, mind running ragged at the idea of letting the world think that you’re involved with Bradley Bradshaw.

In all your years of fantasising about him, consuming every piece of media you could find that he was involved in, this is not how you thought it would go.

In your mind, if you ever met Bradley, it would have been love at first sight. Your teenage fantasies tended to follow the idea of him returning to Romeo and Juliet, a triumphant revival where you replaced Natasha Trace. Looking back, you’re not entirely sure why Bradley would be playing Romeo at thirty, but it had seemed like a wonderful idea at the time.

“So,” Metcalf says, eyes darting between you, Bob and Bradley. “Is that us? Are we understood?”

Nods are exchanged, yeses are murmured, and you find yourself outside again. The air is cool, just windy enough to send a shiver down your spine.

The producers all congregate together, Metcalf ushering Bob ahead of them, while you and Bradley hang back.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is quiet, sincere as he falls into step beside you.

“That wasn’t your idea,” You reply. “It’s the studio.”

“Not that,” He murmurs. “For the kiss. Making you feel uncomfortable.”

Oh.

“I shouldn’t have freaked out. ‘S not your fault. I-It’s just… this movie is really important to me. Lizzie is really important to me. I don’t want to jeopardise that.”

Bradley nods. “I get that.” He falls silent, before making a move to reply. He’s cut off by a producer up ahead calling on him. “I’ll be back in a sec,” He mumbles, detaching himself from your side with an air of reluctance.

You watch his form retreat, offering a polite smile as a few of the men hang back from the rest of the group.

“You know,” One of them begins, eyes trailing down your body, “-if you ever get sick of Bradshaw, there’s always space for you in the exec office. In whatever capacity you’d like-”

“I don’t think that would go down too well with the press,” You reply coldly. “If we want to sell the relationship with Bradley.”

The other man leans in closer to you, his hand brushing the small of your back. “Come on, baby, don’t be like that-”

“Hey, Lizzie,” Bradley calls across the lot, making a few steps back towards you. “Want to talk to you about tomorrow’s scenes.”

You’re frozen, feet unable to move, unable to process the producer’s words. It isn’t until you feel a hand drop to your waist, a presence behind you that forces you out of your daze. It’s Bradley, a cool stare fixed on the producer as he leads you away from the gathering.

“You okay?”

You nod, glancing over your shoulder. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“What kind of a fake boyfriend would I be if I let some sleaze hit on my girl?”

My girl. The phrase makes your chest tighten slightly, your body entirely unable to separate fiction from reality. You think about what it could be like, being with Bradley for real.

Being the one he flirts shamelessly with all day - a pointless but endearing endeavour, since there would be no doubt in either of your minds that you would be ending the night together, curled up in each other’s arms. Reading together well into the night, singing softly while Bradley plays piano.

You don’t even know if he actually plays - he did in Swingtime Spring, but you can never tell these days whether some is real, or a trick of filming. It certainly looked real, and a part of you hopes he picked it up for real.

Maybe the two of you would become synonymous in the minds of the public. Like Lizzie and Darcy.

It’s a nice fantasy, but you’re not sure Bradley has the capacity for monogamy anymore. Especially not with you. Not when he could have anyone he wanted.

Not when he’s had everyone he’s ever put his mind to.

Models, actresses, there have even been rumours of a princess or two. And that’s before you even dive into Bradley’s male friends. Starting from one of his first pictures, gossip has followed him his entire career. Affairs with co-stars, male and female - never confirmed, but always present.

In a world where Bradley Bradshaw could have literal royalty, he’s not going to settle for the backup Elizabeth Bennet. The girl who only got the part because Jean Carter didn’t want it.

However jumbled your feelings for him may be, you need to put them aside.

For the sake of Pride and Prejudice.

For the sake of Lizzie and Darcy.

“It’s kind of a common occurrence these days,” You dismiss, trying desperately to focus on anything other than the heat radiating from his palm.

“It shouldn’t be.”

“Thought you were meant to be a Hollywood veteran?” You reply dryly. “You’d think you would know how these things go.”

“Just ‘cause it’s the way things have always been, doesn’t mean it’s right. I’ve always hated those executive pricks. Think they’re better than everybody all because they’ve got some money. They don’t actually give a shit about any of the art they’re making. I hate it.”

He pauses for a second, glancing down at you.

“If anybody here ever makes you uncomfortable, or anything like that - I want you to tell me. Or Bob, or whatever. Tell somebody. You’re young, young enough that people will try and capitalise on it. But you’ve got people in your corner.”

Your eyebrow raises involuntarily. “You’re in my corner?”

“I mean, yeah. I know we’ve kind of had a weird start, but I’d like for us to be friends-”

Friends. The word twists around in your gut.

“-especially if we’re going to be spending a lot more time together.”

“Maybe we should talk about the terms tonight,” You finally say, voice deliberate.

“Yeah?” His lips quirk up, his hand still firmly round your waist. “You sure?”

You shrug slightly. “If you’re threatening producers on my behalf already, I figured we should get the ground rules sorted.”

“Well, I for one would be happy to deal with any jackass who’s bothering you.”

You snort. “Sounds more like an attack dog than a boyfriend.”

“Aren’t I allowed to be both?”

It’s surprisingly easy to joke around with him. Maybe this won’t be a colossal disaster. "So... when does this thing start?"

"I can take you out to dinner tomorrow? If you're free?"

You pretend to think, but you know you're wide open. You're sure your social calendar has nothing on Bradley's.

"Great," He smiles. "I'll pick you up at seven."

*****

“You kissed him?” Callie shrieks, sliding into your bedroom from the kitchen. This is a recent development. Every passing day has brought you closer to her, the bond between Lizzie and Jane spilling over into real life.

Each night, one of you cooks dinner, and the night is spent gossiping in the sitting room until the early hours of the morning.

“He kissed me,” You correct, crossing your arms as you shoot her a glare.

“But you kissed back?” Your hesitation says it all, and Callie lets out another gasp. “Oh my god!”

You groan, before tossing yourself backwards, onto your pillow. “I’m such an idiot.”

“I’m not seeing how this is a problem.”

“Have you met him? He’s awful.”

“I really don’t think he’s as awful as you seem to think he is, honey. Sure, he’s a little bit sleazy, but who isn’t in Hollywood?”

“Is Jake sleazy?”

“A little,” She shrugs. “But it’s not like I’m going to marry him. We have fun. You could have fun with Bradley. No strings.”

“Mhm,” You hum, entirely unconvinced. “Not sure that’s my style.”

"Well, maybe you'll be wife number three," She muses. "Third time's the charm and all that."

When you don't reply, she raises an eyebrow. "You aren't... you aren't actually into him, right?"

"What? No. Of course not. He's a jerk."

"Are you sure?"

The lie comes easy. "Yeah."

She sizes you up, skepticism radiating from her. "If you say so."

Chapter Text

Bradley’s right on time. You’d been worried all day, visions of him forgetting entirely, standing you up in favour of some party in Beverly Hills. Even shopping with Callie at Rodeo Drive hadn’t quelled your nerves.

Most of the dresses you’d looked at were miles out of your price range, but you knew you needed something nice for tonight. Not for Bradley, you’d explained to Callie, though the look she gave you told you that she didn’t believe a single word you were saying. But if you were going to be photographed, sprawled across the tabloids, you wanted to be seen as a worthy equal to Bradley.

The press are ruthless. If they don’t feel that you’re pretty enough, sophisticated enough to be on his arm, you’ll be torn apart.

You get one that’s on sale - definitely not the current style, but it’s cheap-ish, and the colour compliments your skin tone. Paired with your mom’s pearl necklace, it’s as good as you’re going to get.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Glamourous but understated.

Now, standing in the full-length mirror in the entrance of your apartment where you can carefully inspect every blemish and imperfection, you feel endlessly silly. You’re a theatre actress from the East Coast - what business do you have to be going out with one of Hollywood’s biggest stars?

You’ve always tried to stay present. Not put yourself down for working hard to get where you are. But your imposter syndrome is running wild tonight.

A knock sounds at the door, and you close your eyes, trying to steady your breathing before you open it.

Bradley stands outside, flowers in hand. He inhales slightly, eyes trailing down your form.

“Hi,” You murmur, just wanting him to say something, anything.

“You look beautiful,” He replies, gaze returning to your face.

“I-I didn’t have time to get it tailored.” A lie. The dress alone had wiped out your account. You’ll be eating leftovers until you got paid next week. Tailoring is very much not in the budget.

“I don’t think a tailor could make any real improvements there, Lizzie.” There’s a moment of silence, before Bradley speaks again, offering you the flowers. “I made a reservation at Perino’s - is Italian food okay?”

“Italian food is perfect,” You smile, holding the roses to your chest. “Let me just put these in some water.”

The paparazzi aren’t going to see the flowers. Bradley must have known that. Unless he’s just that good. Metcalf did say he was a professional, after all.

You shake it off, and allow him to lead you out to his car. This is it. The point of no return.

*****

Bradley opts to park out front. A conscious choice - he’d warned you about it on the drive.

“The studio wants photos - I’d rather go round the back, go through the kitchen, but I think Mike would have my head. There are going to be a lot of cameras flashing in your face, okay? Might feel like too much, but I’ll be there the whole time. I’ll get you inside in no time.”

There are normally at least a few rogue paparazzo gathered outside Perino’s - it’s a hotspot for celebrities and socialites alike, but today the numbers have tripled. The work of Warner Brothers, you’re sure. Bradley pulls over on the sidewalk, passing his keys to a valet as he steps out.

Shouts erupt, flashes nearly blinding you as the men try their best to get close to you, get a glimpse of Bradley’s newest girl.

There’s a single second where you feel absolutely terrified. Until Bradley’s hand pushes through the crowds, shoving past to get round the car to your door. He opens it, using himself as a shield while he helps you to your feet.

“You okay?” He asks, voice low as he dips his head to your ear.

You nod slightly, just desperate to be out of the spotlight, and Bradley starts to clear a path to the restaurant, his grip on you tight.

It feels like hours before you reach the front door, the waiters immediately stepping aside to let you both in.

Finally away from the circus, you let out a breath, glancing around. It’s the fanciest place you’ve ever been. If someone told you that every single person in here was royalty, you’d believe them without a second thought.

“I’m so underdressed,” You murmur, slowing to a stop in the doorway. Bradley’s hand remains on your waist, his presence solid behind you as he shakes his head.

“Kid, you blow everyone here out of the water, no matter what you’re wearing.”

Not entirely convinced, you let him lead you to a circular booth in the corner of the restaurant - the closest thing this place has to privacy. Bradley slips in after you, asking the waiter for something you’ve never heard of.

“Thought we might as well talk this through in style,” He murmurs, though there’s no one around to overhear your conversation. “Just so we’re both on the same page.”

“What do these things normally look like?” You ask, smiling as the waiter brings over a bottle of wine, that looks like it may be more expensive than your childhood home.

“Just depends what you’re comfortable with,” Bradley replies. “Obviously there has to be a degree of touching in public - hand-holding and stuff. But if you think kissing is too far, we don’t have to do any of that.”

You think about it for a second. You’re still reeling from your last kiss with Bradley - doing that on a regular basis with no meaning doesn’t feel very appealing. That being said, you want this relationship to feel as real as possible. You don’t want to give Warner Brothers any reason to doubt you, any reason to pull the funding for the picture.

“Maybe not on the lips,” You begin, and you’re grateful that Bradley just nods, not questioning your decision. He probably feels the same as you do. “But other places would be fine, I guess. Like head, hands, cheek.”

“Yeah,” He says, voice soft. “Whatever you want.”

You glance at the menu, trying to make sense of the host of Italian - not a single dish on here looks familiar.

“That one’s pomodoro,” Bradley points out, gesturing to one of the pasta options. He’s more perceptive than you’d realised - doing things for you without drawing any attention to it. “It’s good.”

You nod. “I think I might have that, then.”

There’s still lots of attention on you both - half of the occupants of the restaurant have been staring at you since you walked in.

“So,” Bradley begins, passing you a glass of wine. “How long have you been in Los Angeles?”

“A few months. I moved here for Grapes of Wrath. Was about to head back to New York when I booked Pride and Prejudice.”

“I never saw Grapes of Wrath,” Bradley replies, a tinge of embarrassment clouding his features. “I don’t like watching movies I didn’t get. I’m sure you were great though. Bob speaks very highly of it.”

“I’d hope so, since he wrote it. Did you audition for Tom?”

“And Casy,” He nods. “But I was too young for it, really. And Joad… I guess they just didn’t like me that much.”

“Well, for what it’s worth - I think you would have been way better than Brigham Lennox.”

He hums slightly, obviously pleased with your remark, and you feel your lips quirking up.

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah. Guy can’t act his way out of a paper bag. It’s a great film - but he really pulled us down. But it’s probably for the best - we’d have been brother and sister if you got the part.”

It’s a bolder statement than you expected from yourself. The first time you’ve alluded to any kind of potential attraction between the two of you.

Bradley makes a face. “Maybe not then. I don’t think Warner Brothers would have been rushing to pair us up together.”

“I mean… they did immediately cast me as his love interest in some crappy crime drama. So it’s not outwith the realms of possibility.”

“Did you guys… did you date?” Bradley asks, and your eyes widen.

“No! God, no.”

He nods. “Good.”

“Good?” You repeat, smiling as his cheeks redden. If teenage you had known that one day she was going to fluster Bradley Bradshaw, she would have died on the spot.

“I didn’t mean it like that - well, maybe a little. I don’t know. What I do know, however, is that Brigham Lennox is a tool, and you deserve better.”

“By better, do you mean a fake relationship with you?” You raise an eyebrow.

“If there’s one thing that I can promise you - it’s that I can show you a better time than he ever could. Real or not.” There’s no more humour in his voice, eyes earnest as he looks at you. You have to fight back a shiver, trying to calm your irregular heart as you meet his gaze.

This feels dangerous. Like a line is being blurred somewhere that you can’t come back from.

“Maybe I’ll pay someone to make me a cut of Grapes of Wrath that’s just got your scenes. See what I’m missing out on here.”

You’re about to reply, brain running on overdrive to try and come up with something coherent, when the waiter appears at the table, destroying whatever had just been forming.

You’re grateful when Bradley orders for you, sending a quick look in your direction to confirm before he speaks.

For the rest of dinner, you allow yourself to get lost in it. The fantasy. Pretending that this is real. That tonight, Bradley will take you back to his home, and you’ll spend the night in his arms.

Instead, it ends with a chaste kiss on the cheek at your front door, with a promise to call the next day.

A few tears escape as you stand before the mirror, brushing your hair out of its updo.

You worry that someday, when you marry another man, you’ll still be thinking of Bradley. Even if you’ve never had him. Even if he was never yours.

*****

It takes less than twenty-four hours for you to be called to Warner Brothers Headquarters. Bradley meets you outside your apartment, insisting on accompanying you despite the fact that you can see the executive offices from your window.

“We’re in this together, remember?” He’d murmured, hand on the small of your back as he led you past the secretaries.

You’re greeted with various congratulations from each producer - you’d think you’d just won an Oscar with the way everybody is behaving.

“You guys are doing a wonderful job,” Metcalf says, smile wide as he sits at his desk, gaze darting between you both. “The press are eating it up.”

Mike slides a newspaper article across the table. You glance at the headline, a picture of you both sprawled over the front cover. Bradley’s partially positioned in front of you, grip tight as he walks you to the car.

BRADLEY AND BABY: NEW PICTURE PRIDE AND PREJUDICE LEADS TO HOLLYWOOD'S LATEST COUPLE?

If you didn’t know better, you’d think you were both a real couple. Mike was right. Bradley’s a pro at this. A consummate professional. You swallow, passing the paper to Bradley for inspection.

“So the movie keeps its funding?” You ask, playing with a ring on your finger.

“The way things stand currently? Of course. Warner Brothers would be stupid not to capitalise on this.”

Bradley shoots a small smile in your direction. It’s conspirational, like the two of you are in on some joke together. Like it hasn’t been forced upon you both by the powers that be. “That’s good,” He replies.

“We think you should go out tonight. Keep the momentum going.”

“Go where?” You ask.

“Anywhere. Trocadero, a party, hell - just take a walk down Sunset.”

Bradley turns to you. “What do you say, kid? Want to go dancing tonight?”

You’re decidedly not a dancer. Never have been. But you find yourself nodding anyway - if only to make Bradley happy. You’re sure you aren’t at the top of his list in terms of dates, but you’re grateful he isn’t making that obvious.

“I uh, I don’t have a dress-”

“Warner Brothers will comp it-” Metcalf interrupts, and your jaw drops.

“Really?”

He nods. “As long as you keep it less than thirty dollars.”

A few more details are ironed out, and you’re both dismissed. Bradley stays behind you as you walk out, his presence constant behind you.

“You want me to drive you to Rodeo? Get a dress?”

You shake your head. “I can get a cab, it’s okay-”

“Don’t be stupid. It’s not far.”

“It’s forty minutes,” You deadpan. “Really, Bradley - I don’t mind-”

He just shoots you a wink. “Forty minutes is nothing with good company.”

True to his word, he drives you across town, and insists on waiting outside each changing room while you browse.

The shop attendant seems to be one of the only people in the world who doesn't know Bradley. Either that or she's an excellent actress.

"You know," She murmurs, lacing up the back of a dress. "The husbands never wait outside. And they're certainly never as interested as yours is."

"Oh, we're not-" You begin, stammering slightly as you watch her in the mirror, but she shakes her head.

"The way he looks at you? You will be soon."

*****

Instead of being invisible when you enter parties, you’re now greeted with the attention of every attendee. Everyone in the world wants a piece of Bradley Bradshaw. The studios may care about the flops, but the people of Los Angeles sure don’t.

It’s all he can do just to hold onto you, keep you close in the sea of people - some wanting just a chat, some offering him parts, some asking for advice. You’ve never seen anything like it.

Eventually he makes it to a couch in the corner of the room, pulling you down beside him. One arm drapes across your shoulder, while the other settles on your thigh.

The alcohol keeps coming your way, glasses of champagne being deposited any time Bradley’s drink is running low. Your head starts to spin, the classic wooziness that you’ve never been able to escape after drink three.

It doesn’t help that you haven’t eaten today - a price of fitting into this dress.

Tiredness starts to seep into your bones, head leaning against his shoulder as you try and pay attention to the conversations going on in your periphery.

You last until almost 2am. Some guy has been talking Bradley’s ear off about investing for the past half hour. Your arm is tucked through his, cheek pressed into his shoulder, and sleep continues to call for you.

It doesn’t help that his hand has been firmly creeping higher up your thigh all night, rubbing comforting circles through the fabric of your dress.

“You want to go home?”

It takes you a second to realise that Bradley’s talking to you, his attention entirely off the man standing in front of you both.

“Hm?” You murmur.

“You’re exhausted, honey - maybe we should head home.”

You’re about to protest, insist that you’re fine, when you catch the look in his eyes.

Oh.

He wants to leave. He’s as into this conversation as you are.

You nod, biting your lip as you throw an apologetic glance towards the man. “Sorry - we’ve been filming all day.”

Bradley doesn’t even apologise for the abrupt end, looping his arm round your waist to pull you against him as you both stand. The hard planes of his chest steady you, and you let him lead you to the door, where his driver is waiting.

A few goodbyes are tossed in your direction, and Bradley bundles you into the back of the Cadillac.

“Thank god,” He finally breathes, as Manny pulls the car out of the driveway. “Thought we were never getting out of there.”

“I lost track of what he was talking about five minutes in,” You admit. “Business isn’t really a strong suit of mine.”

“Mine neither,” He laughs, rubbing his neck. “People seem to assume I’m really into money, and whatever. One of the perks of being famous is hiring someone so I don’t have to deal with any of that.”

The car turns and starts to head for Warner Brothers. You wonder if anybody has realised yet that Hollywood’s newest golden couple have never actually spent the night together. The closest you’ve come to sex was in a dark dressing room, an event promptly forgotten, never to be discussed again.

“I’ll meet you outside tomorrow, we can walk over to the lot?” Bradley says, as Manny brings the car to a stop outside your apartment. He’s immediately opening the door, darting round to your side to help you out.

Despite your protests, he walks you right up to your landing.

“You never know who’s hanging about here, honey.”

“Literally nobody. The lot’s deserted at night.”

He hushes you, pressing a kiss to your temple as you open the door. “Do you really find it so hard to believe that I enjoy your company?”

“I find it hard to believe that you don’t have better things to be doing than walking me twenty metres to my door.”

“You’re too cynical, Lizzie. It’s gonna come back to bite you one day.”

You let out a small laugh. “Goodnight Bradley.”

“Night, kid. See you tomorrow.”

*****

Two weeks in, and Hollywood has been set alight. The press and public alike have been going crazy for your relationship with Bradley - sales of the book of Pride and Prejudice are up fifty percent. It’s quickly becoming one of the most anticipated pictures of the year.

Today, you’re stretched out across one of the loungers in his backyard. The two of you couldn’t always be out and about - the paparazzi had to see you enjoying some domesticity. They certainly loved Bradley pulling up to the Warner Brothers lot to pick you up, congregating up on Mulholland Drive to watch him bring you back to his place.

The one-piece you’re wearing rides just a little higher on your backside than you would normally be comfortable with. But after spending the last hour swimming and chatting with Bradley, who’s donning only the tiniest pair of swim shorts, your embarrassment has shrivelled up a little.

When he’d first discarded his robe, diving into the deep end of the pool, you’d had to make a very conscious effort to keep your breathing normal, and your thighs unclenched.

The tan skin, the untamed curly hair, the smile - you’re a goner.

Things hadn’t gotten much better, especially when Bradley’s fingers had dug into your side, tickling as he tried to get you to own up to your past on Broadway.

It’s a world he’s entirely unfamiliar with - his knowledge coming from brief visits to New York in his youth.

You don’t even know why you’re self-conscious about it. Bradley got his start with Romeo and Juliet too, albeit in a different medium.

Maybe you just don’t like reminding yourself of that little girl who thought Bradley Bradshaw hung the stars. Especially because you’re starting to think she might have had a point.

“What was your first show on Broadway? Come on - it can’t be that embarrassing. Worked out just fine for you. You’re about to be a big movie star.”

Here it is.

“Uh, Romeo and Juliet.”

“Yeah?” He smiles. “You played Juliet?” You nod. “I can see that. You’re a good ingenue.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I’d like to do more Shakespeare - I don’t think anybody would be casting me as Romeo these days, but maybe Macbeth.”

Now, Bradley brings you a drink, before taking a seat on the lounger next to you. You spot an already-creased paperback of Pride and Prejudice in his other hand. There are stickers poking out of each chapter, pointing to various annotations he’s made. You have to bite back a smile as he lies down beside you, head radiating from his form.

It’s a perfect day.

And when the press get a picture of you leaving Bradley’s house, in just sandals and a cover-up, they go wild.

Warner Brothers are thrilled.

*****

It’s your own fault. You know that. Dropping in on Bradley like this, with no warning, was always going to go badly. You’d been in Studio City, visiting an old friend from Grapes of Wrath, and had decided to make the walk to Mulholland Drive. It had been about fifty minutes, but the weather was good, and you’d been meaning to see more of the city.

You don’t even know what you were planning on doing once you made it to Bradley’s house - it’s not like you two are actually dating. He probably doesn’t want to spend his weekend with you - not after all this time spent together offset.

But a part of you hopes that at the very least, there’s an element of your friendship that’s real. That you might keep in touch after Pride and Prejudice wraps - an odd lunch, some letters.

It isn’t until you’re on his street, and see a figure walking down his driveway that you freeze.

You know her.

Natasha Trace.

One of the most famous actresses in the world… and Bradley’s Juliet.

Your breath hitches, and you begin to backtrack immediately. It’s still early. Bradley’s not really an early morning kind of guy. He prefers to sleep until midday where possible, and stay up until well past midnight. It’s just gone nine.

You think you might be sick.

Of course this isn’t real. You went into it with the express knowledge that you were going to be faking everything for the press.

But like the idiot you are, you allowed him to fool you. To draw you in with his quips that are only for your ears, his casual touches that send your head spinning.

It’s all you can do not to sob.

Instead, you turn on your heel and begin to make your way back down Mulholland. Trying to put as much distance between you and Bradley Bradshaw as possible. Once you make it to the main road you’ll be able to call a cab. Straight to Warner Brothers to call this thing off.

If you had taken any more time to think about things, spoken to Callie or Reuben to cool off, you might have realised that you’re being hasty.

All you can think about is Bradley. And Natasha. Bradley with Natasha. Bradley with Natasha, in a way he’s never been with you.

You can tell Metcalf isn’t expecting you by the furrow of his brow, as he goes to speak.

“-Bradley and I are done,” You interrupt, placing your hands on the table. “I want out.”

“Are you insane? You’ve been in the headlines solidly for three weeks. The publicity is incredible.”

“And now it’s over. I’m done.”

Mike's face hardens, his mouth setting in a thin line. "That's not a decision you can make on your own, kid. This is a studio decision."

"Stage a breakup, an affair - whatever you want. I don't care. There's only a week of filming left. Surely you can work with that."

Finally, an ounce of humanity crosses his expression. "You're really sure you can't do it anymore?"

"Please, Mike." You're near pleading. But if you don't get Bradley out of your head soon, you think you might die.

"There was someone asking about you - a Jack Winter?" You know him. Bradley hates him. Even more than he hates Brigham - an almost impressive feat. "He's seen your picture, wanted your number. We'd said no, but I guess if you wanted to give that a try... we could stage something. Push the Bradshaw playboy image, set you up with someone more age appropriate."

You think for a second. Every happy memory you have with Bradley passes through your mind a whirl.

"Give him my number."

*****

He doesn’t mean to do it. Really, truly, it’s a god-honest mistake. The girl, Calista, has your colouring, she’s about your height, and it just slips out.

Hands on her waist as she rides him, Bradley's at least six whiskeys deep. Normally, he’d hardly notice that - but his appetite has been off recently, and he’s all out of sorts.

He misses you. More than he ever thought he would - especially since he just saw you on Friday.

Your smile. Your laugh. The way your brow furrows when you’re concentrating and don’t think anybody’s watching you.

He doesn’t get to see any of that anymore. After getting a cryptic call from Mike Metcalf yesterday telling him the relationship was off, he spent the afternoon outside your apartment, begging you to talk to him. He still doesn’t know what he did to upset you. Doesn’t know if he’ll ever figure that out.

He hadn't given up until night - when Reuben finally emerged from his apartment, told him you didn't want any visitors. Bradley had slunk off home, drank half of his wine cellar, and called a former fling.

The period with you had been his longest period of celibacy since his first marriage.

Maybe you spoke to one of his exes - freaked out and decided you wanted nothing to do with him anymore. He’s not sure that he can even blame you.

He’d just mess it up eventually, one way or another.

Calista’s the second girl he’s been with today. Whatever qualms he had about sleeping with anybody during your arrangement, they’re all gone now. All that’s left are images of you, floating about his brain with a frightening ferocity.

Other girls don't seem to be re-writing the memories the way he hoped they would.

“Who the hell is Lizzie?” She frowns, brows twisting as her hips slow to a complete stop. Bradley’s still inside her. He’s never wanted for the ground to swallow him more.

“I uh, I-I misspoke,” is all he can muster, a pathetic attempt to diffuse the tension. It doesn’t work. She moves back, grabbing at the duvet to pull over herself, and Bradley sighs. “Look, I’m really sorry- let me get you a cab-”

“Are you still with that girl? Your co-star? Because I never would have-”

“No!” He exclaims. “No. It-It’s just… look, I don’t know what to say other than sorry. Guess I’m just… shit - where do you live?”

“Malibu,” She replies, and Bradley nods.

“I’ll get you a cab, pay for it.”

He heads into the bathroom, rubbing at his eyes tiredly.

Fuck.

He's got to work out what happened. Why you suddenly seem so intent on never seeing him again.

Filming finishes on Friday - the wrap party set for after post-production wraps, and the premiere set for three months from now.

He just hopes he can sort things out in time. Before this ends, and he never sees you again.

Chapter Text

Jack Winter loves the sound of his own voice. It’s something you probably could have guessed about him, but it hasn’t hit you properly until now. Two hours into dinner, and he hasn’t asked you a single question about yourself.

In fact, he’s spent more time talking about Bradley than anything else tonight. About how Bradley’s a relic of the way things were, destined to be forgotten alongside the silent era. Your lip has stayed firmly between your teeth, trying to fight the urge to defend him.

Bradley hurt you more than you ever thought possible. But he’s also nice, and kind, and you don’t like hearing someone talking about him like this.

Maybe you overreacted. Even if he is sleeping with Natasha, it’s not like he was actually with you. Technically, there’s been no wrongdoing. Bradley Bradshaw’s only guilty of bruising your ego. It’s too late anyway.

You and Jack have been spotted by the tabloids, and are well on your way to being Hollywood’s latest trend.

It’s not all bad. He can be funny, when the joke isn’t at your expense. And he is very handsome. He’s not as striking as Bradley, much more of an everyman, but he’s easy to look at.

The biggest selling point is that it’s real. The dates are real, the kissing is real, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to sleep with him tonight.

You had been nervous - the kind of anxiety that thrums through your veins, keeping you up at night, but five glasses of champagne had put paid to that. The worry that Jack was going to identify your meagre experience and not want to fuck you was ridiculous.

If he didn’t take you home tonight, he’d find someone else to. You’re almost surprised it’s taken him four dates to get to this point. Date three had almost ended with sex - he had been kissing you up against your apartment door, fingers gripping tightly enough to leave bruises the next day, before Callie’s door had opened, and Jake emerged, apologies tumbling from his lips as he’d passed.

Honestly, the distraction had been welcome. The champagne had worn off before you even got in the car, and you’d had to fight to keep a tremble from your hands.

You don’t know what’s wrong with you. For all his faults, you like Jack. You want him to like you, want to be someone that he can show off. Talk about proudly to reporters, bring you to premieres, support each other’s work.

And for any of that to happen, you’ll have sex.

So you drink your champagne, laugh in the right places, and let him take you to his Bel Air house. You let him untie your corset, press your face down into the mattress, and you pretend you aren’t thinking of Bradley Bradshaw the entire time.

*****

Bradley’s been trying to talk to you all week. Half-excuses and half-apologies, you don’t think he even knows what for. Thankfully, almost all of the Darcy and Lizzie scenes were done while you were on good terms. Now, all you have to do is fake civility for the final few days of shooting. You’d been hoping to finish up today, wrap the final Jane and Elizabeth moments, but it’s looking like you’re going to run into next week.

Bob had mentioned the studio wanting some last-minute rewrites too. Chances are you’ll be here until at least Wednesday.

You manage to avoid Bradley as much as possible, sticking close to Callie so he doesn’t have an opportunity to pull you aside.

Jack’s here today. Not something you’d planned, or even particularly wanted - but he’d turned up to the Warner Brothers lot and sweet-talked his way onto the soundstage.

He’d cited missing you, bringing a bouquet of flowers - an act which elicited coos and giggles from all the female extras. You’d smiled, kissed his cheek, but all you could think about was Bradley watching on, and sitting beside Carmen, of all people.

Lunch is a torturous affair. Jack keeps talking about the restaurant he’s taking you tonight. How hard it is to get a reservation, the number of strings he had to pull just to get in this time of year.

He’s talking about Perino’s. The place Bradley took you for your very first date. All you want to do is hang your head and cry.

But afternoon filming calls, and soon you’re able to lose yourself in some of the group scenes. You’re endlessly grateful for Callie and Jake keeping the conversation light, and far away from you and Bradley.

The hours pass, and soon you’re almost done. The end is in sight. Except Bradley can’t seem to get a single line right.

“Bradshaw!” Bob scolds, after the fourth flubbed attempt. “What the hell is this?”

“Just can’t get the words in my head, I guess,” He shrugs.

“Take half an hour to rehearse. We’ll reconvene at five. No one’s leaving until we’re done.”

The day was meant to end at six. Instead, you don’t get to leave until almost nine. Bradley’s never been worse. Stammering and missing marks, you could count at least five new grey hairs on Bob’s head before the night is out.

Of course, the reservation at Perino’s is well and truly missed.

For you.

Jack had been sympathetic at first, pressing quick kisses to your hairline between takes. But as eight o’clock drew nearer, he’d been getting increasingly antsy, before finally announcing he had a friend he could take to dinner instead.

You should have been embarrassed, annoyed, anything. Instead you were just grateful he was leaving. Tensions had been high all day, and it’s like everyone can breathe a little easier after Jack departs.

In a miraculous turn of events, Bradley’s performance also dramatically improves. An outsider might assume that Jack’s presence had made him nervous, that he doesn’t like being watched by strangers, but you know him better.

He doesn’t like Jack. But he could’ve done that scene just fine if he wanted to.

Right as you’re about to leave, as everyone else is filing out, Javy grabs you and Bradley, pulling you into the offices.

“Here,” Bob murmurs, passing you both some pages. “Studio wants an extra scene added.”

You glance down, skimming the words, as your heart sinks. A kiss scene.

Lizzie and Darcy don’t kiss in the book. You’d assumed you were safe. Longing looks? You could do. Heartfelt confessions? A stretch, but you’d manage.

But kissing? Pride and Prejudice is a slow-moving production. One kiss scene could take all day.

“T-That’s not in the book,” You manage, keeping your gaze as far away from Bradley as possible. His eyes are boring into the side of your head - one turn of your jaw and you’d be staring right at him. There’s a pull, low in your stomach, telling you to give in.

That maybe giving him a chance and allowing him to explain wouldn’t be quite as catastrophic as you imagine it.

Bob just shrugs. “Warner Brothers thought audiences would want some pay-off. They’re invested in you both as a couple-”

At this, Bradley snorts, while you roll your eyes.

“-and despite whatever the fuck this is, you look good together. We’re filming on Monday. Studio gave us an extra few days of funding, as long as there’s a kiss in that final cut. So if either of you have a problem with that, you can take it up with Mike Metcalf. Not me.”

Glares are directed at you both, from Bob and Javy. You really do feel terrible. The film’s success, which had once felt like the longest of long-shots, had begun to feel like a tangible possibility thanks to the relationship between you and Bradley.

And while the press loved the breakdown of another Bradshaw relationship, excitement for Pride and Prejudice was beginning to shrivel up. The scandal of you leaving Bradley for Jack had made the front pages for a day or two, before Ron Kerner announced his fifth divorce, and you were all promptly forgotten.

“Is that a problem?” Javy asks, voice low, and you both shake your heads. “Good. Be here sharp on Monday.”

With that, they’re gone, and before you can even register it, you’re alone with Bradley.

“Why’d you call it off?”

His voice is quiet. Almost… sad? Probably just wishful thinking. But you can’t keep running from this.

“I-I felt hurt. It was stupid, but I didn’t think I could be around you. Not like that.”

“Please tell me what I did, kid. I’ve been wracking my brain, and I swear to god I can’t think of anything.”

Now it’s your turn to go quiet. Now that you’re about to say it aloud, the whole reason seems to ridiculous. “I saw you with Natasha Trace. I know we didn’t have plans, but I thought you maybe wanted to go for breakfast, or something. But she was leaving your place-”

“Oh. Oh, honey,” Bradley’s brow furrows, but you stumble on.

“-And I know that we aren’t together - weren’t together. And you can do whatever you want, with whoever you want. B-but I was embarrassed, Bradley. A-at the idea that you could ever be with me, when you have girls like that who want you.”

“Nat and I aren’t together. Never have been.”

Your lips part, as if you’re about to speak, and then you’re quiet again. Contemplating. It doesn’t really make a difference anyway. You believe him about Natasha - he’s never lied to you before, and his eyes are earnest, but if it isn’t Natasha it’ll be someone else. Someone prettier, smarter, better.

Bradley swallows. “I really like spending time with you, Lizzie. That was never fake.”

Tears start to prick at your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I know how it could have looked. But honey, Jack Winter is bad news. The guy’s the biggest jerk I’ve ever met. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“I-I’ve already messed everything else up, I can’t mess this up too. N-not when the studio are using it for publicity.”

“Fuck the studio,” Bradley replies, voice low. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

You shake your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “I should go. Jack said he’d swing by after dinner.”

“Lizzie. He abandoned you for a dinner reservation. He’s a grade-A jackass.”

It’s too much. Bradley’s closer than he’s been all day, and it’s overwhelming. Because Bradley could have anyone in the world. And you just can’t understand why he’s sitting here and looking at you like that.

“I’ll see you on Monday.”

It’s all you can manage, voice hitching as you fight back tears. Getting to your feet, you can’t bring yourself to look at him as you walk out, trying desperately to keep your head high.

*****

Bradley’s never considered himself a particularly vindictive man. Before today.

He gives money to charity, is generally amicable with his exes (other than a few notable exceptions), and thinks his Ma would be proud of where he is in life.

But god, does he love watching Jack Winter’s face in between every take. This is hour three of the kiss scene. It took half that time just to get you to warm up. The first takes were so stilted that they drew audible groans from Bob.

After a ten minute lecture on chemistry and professionalism, you seemed slightly more in the zone. Your grip on his shirt loosens, your lips part a little further, and Bradley could’ve sworn he heard a soft sigh during the last round.

And while you’re relaxing into the role, into Bradley, Winter’s grip on his coffee cup tightens with every passing second. His knuckles are white, his brow is furrowed, and Bradley’s not convinced he isn’t going to crush the mug with his bare hands.

He’s actually worried. Worried that despite the fact that you seem to hate Bradley’s guts, that there’s still a chance that he’ll lose you to him.

Bradley would be surprised if Winter has even made it official yet. It’s the third last day of filming, after some last minute extensions. Even if you’d gone out every night since ending the PR relationship, which he’s pretty sure you haven’t done, that’s still only a little over a week.

Thursday nights are for dinner with Callie and Reuben. Bradley went to one, while you were together - he was glad you seemed to have found a support system in Hollywood. It was more than he had at that age. And you never like to be out too late on Sundays when you have an early call time the next morning.

Jack Winter doesn’t seem like the type to care about that kind of thing.

He wonders if you’ve slept together. An ex of his had dated Jack right before she dated Bradley - the reviews were not complimentary.

“Okay,” Bob begins, calling over from the director’s chair. “We’re almost there. Just a few more takes, and angles, and then we’ll be done.”

You nod, offering a nervous glance in Bradley’s direction. He throws you back what he hopes is a comforting smile.

Everyone repositions, Bradley’s hand returning to your waist as yours return to his chest. Your lips are swollen, your pupils are blown wide, and Bradley can feel a steady ache growing in his stomach.

You’re so young.

Too young for him.

Yet he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anyone more in his life. It’s not purely sexual, though he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about you between his sheets, coming undone around his fingers, his tongue, his cock.

It’s a thought that’s been plaguing him since you ended things. Since you thought he was sleeping with Natasha.

There may be an aspect of you hating his guts that fuels the feeling. He’s always had a tendency to want what he can’t have. Roles, girls, companionship - Bradley’s a glutton for punishment. He’s sure a psychiatrist could make sense of it somehow. Could draw lines from today all the way back through the drinking; the sex; the wives; the war; his mom. Hell, even Nick Bradshaw, dead for thirty years, probably has a part to play in all of this.

He wouldn’t be good for you. But god does he want to be.

There’s no dialogue in this part of the scene. It’s purely focused on the kiss. So when Bob shouts action, he squeezes your hip ever so slightly. A sign that he’s about to kiss you, that you can still back away and he’ll stop. That he doesn’t want to do anything that’ll make you uncomfortable.

You don’t move, and Bradley dips his head, lips brushing against yours.

It’s been years since Bradley’s kissed someone on camera. Since ageing out of the romantic hero archetype, he’s been relegated to villains and supporting parts. He doesn’t even remember the last time he had a love interest.

It was probably Ruthie.

Bradley tries to think about her as little as possible. Easy to do when your eyes are fluttering closed and you’re sighing against him. It’s such a pretty sound. He gets lost in it, arms tightening round you as he holds you closer. There’s a slight movement, a stumble, and your bank is against a pillar, Bradley settling between your legs.

A whimper falls from your lips at the contact, and Bradley’s knees almost buckle. Neither of you are acting. He knows it. You know it. He hopes Jack Winter knows it.

Your hands are combing through his hair, curling at the nape of his neck as you let out a huff of breath, a single word escaping. He stills, lips slowing.

His mind short-circuits. He can’t tell if you just said Darcy, or Bradley. If you’re the world’s best actress, or if you’re as affected by this as he is.

It’s only then that he lets the rest of the world back in.

“Cut!”

Chest heaving, Bradley pulls back, immediately diverting his gaze from your face. The last time the two of you were like this, all he could see was regret written across your face. It’s been weeks, and he still hasn’t gotten the image of you in his dressing room out of his mind.

Instead, he looks at the crowd watching on, far bigger than when the day had begun.

Javy’s hiding a smirk, biting back a laugh as his eyes dart between you both.

Bob’s jaw is dropped just a little, cheeks flushed.

Callie and Jake have appeared, probably from whatever cupboard they were just fucking in. While he was still seeing you, you had told him in a very conspirational tone over dinner that Jake and Callie were hooking up. Bradley had pretended to be surprised for your sake, but really it was obvious to anyone with eyes.

Jake looks amused, but Callie’s mouth is fixed in a thin line, with an expression he can’t place.

The real kicker is Winter. A scowl he isn’t even bothering to hide, his eyes are locked entirely on you. Even the very idea that he’s annoyed at you for doing your job puts Bradley’s hackles up.

“Took you long enough,” Jake murmurs, and Bradley frowns.

“What?”

“Bob called cut like a full minute ago. But you and the kid were too busy necking.”

“Oh god,” You breathe, voice so low he’s sure he’s the only one who hears. You’re fidgeting with your dress, a tell-tale sign of nervousness, and a silence falls over the crowd again.

Before anyone can speak, you’re moving, running towards the dressing rooms. Jack lets out a scoff, moving to follow, but Callie pushes past and runs after you. Jake’s arm comes out to stop Winter, shooting him a look.

“Let Cal go,” He murmurs.

Bradley can’t stand this anymore. He turns on his heel, and heads for his car, not even bothering to take his costume off.

*****

“Jesus Christ,” Natasha sighs, leaning back on the couch. “You’re such a fucking idiot.”

“Don’t you think I know that?”

Natasha’s always been able to read him, for better or worse. And the look she’s giving him right now tells him that he’s in for it.

A lecture, ridicule, he thinks he’s prepared for all of it.

“You’re in love with her.”

A bullet to the chest wouldn’t hit as hard as that statement. Bradley stammers, trying to get his bearings, but Natasha stays unwavering. “I’m not in love with her. I barely know her.”

“When has that ever stopped you before?”

"She's young."

Nat scoffs. "I think she's more than capable of making up her own mind about you. I hate when men say that, as if a woman doesn't know herself until she's in her thirties. I married Marco at twenty-two - he was almost forty."

"You got divorced three years later," Bradley points out, and Natasha rolls her eyes.

"Not the point. We didn't divorce because I was too young - we divorced because he fucked his assistant. If you married Lizzie, would you cheat on her?"

"No, of course not!"

"Bradley, when you were with her, it was the happiest I'd seen you since Romeo and Juliet."

"It wasn't a real relationship-"

"Okay well, if that's fake, think how happy you could be if you got your act together and won her over."

He lets out a sigh. "I don't know, Nat. I swore off of this kind of thing after Ruthie. It's never worth it."

"She's worth it," Nat muses. "I'd bet the house on it."

Chapter Text

Jack doesn’t come back to the Pride and Prejudice set. It takes copious apologising, promises to spend your nights off with him, and a pledge that there’s nothing going on between you and Bradley Bradshaw for him to drop the incident.

But while he appears to have forgotten and moved on, you certainly can’t. God, how you hate yourself. If you hadn’t jumped to conclusions, let yourself cool off, you might still be with Bradley.

In whatever sense that might have been, you’re pretty sure it’s preferable to this.

Jack Winter doesn’t have the quiet confidence that Bradley has in spades. Instead, he burns through anything that isn’t of immediate interest to him. It’s arrogance personified. That everything in the world must be tailor-made for him, and only exactly when he wants it.

Not a moment later.

“It’s down to me and one other girl for Little Women,” You murmur, unpinning your hair in his ensuite bathroom. “But Javy thinks I’ve got it.”

A grunt is all you receive in return. He’s barely paying attention, eyes glued to his book - whatever it is seems to be far more interesting than you. Despite the fact that just fifteen minutes ago his fist was tangled in your hair, moans guttural as he finished on your back.

Of course, he didn’t clean up, or make any effort to ensure your own pleasure. He simply turned over onto his side, and picked up a book.

Biting back a huff of annoyance, you keep talking. “Reuben’s going to play Laurie, which is really lovely. I’d like to work with him-”

“Wait. Which one’s Amy again? The lead?”

You’d auditioned for both Amy and Jo. But the producers had felt you were a better fit for the younger sister, and you agreed.

There was no point in fighting for the bigger part that you felt less connected to. It didn’t make any sense.

“No, Amy’s the youngest-”

The scoff that escapes stops you in your tracks. “What’s the fuckin’ point if you’re not top billed? You only get one shot at this, baby - you can’t waste it.”

“I’m not wasting it,” You reply, lip between your teeth. “It’s a good role in a picture by an Academy Award winning director. I want to do it.”

“If that’s what you have to tell yourself. But those looks ain’t gonna last forever. You need to bag yourself some romantic lead roles. You want me to talk to Paramount? See if we could get you on loan for my next picture?”

You almost can’t believe the audacity. “No. Of course not. I want to do Little Women.”

Jack meets your gaze, eyes clouded with an emotion you choose to ignore, before rolling his eyes and turning off the lights. Something is muttered under his breath, dangerously close to ‘ungrateful bitch’, and it takes everything in you not to walk out of his house and start the trek back to the studio.

But sixteen miles is a long way in Los Angeles in the dark, and you don’t think you'll be able to get a cab this time of the night.

The snoring starts almost immediately. Mingled with your soft cries, you wonder if this is the way it’s going to be for the rest of your life.

If not Jack, somebody else.

This might just be the price you have to pay for the business.

*****

It’s taken almost five weeks, but Lot 12 at Warner Brothers has finally settled. You’re down to the final two days of shooting, just trying to polish things up for the final edit.

It had felt like an insurmountable task only a week ago. Now? You might even miss it.

Most of the re-shoots don’t involve you and Bradley, which has been nice. You’ve been camped out on the side of the soundstage, playing cards and chatting while you aren’t needed. You’ve also been pointedly ignoring all the looks Callie’s been sending your way.

Strictly speaking, you don’t need to be here at all. Bob could send someone over to your apartment, and call Bradley to bring him in. But you’ve both been diligent, turning up right on time every morning.

You’ve spent more one-on-one time with him than anyone else recently. Jack thinks you’re both still avoiding each other. You’d like for it to stay that way.

Cheeks hurting from laughter, you and Bradley are finally banished from the soundstage after one too many ruined takes. He’s recounting his earliest flops, and his continual run-ins with Chester Cain over the years.

“Can’t believe you only got Romeo and Juliet because his daughter had a crush on you.”

“He should be spending his entire life thanking Janet for that - we made him so much money on that picture.”

He tells you about all your favourite actors - how they are to work with, whether they’re nice to the crew and extras, and if they can memorise their lines.

You’re about halfway through your list of people you want to know about, when Javy pokes his head into the dressing room. “Hey, kid, can I talk to you?”

You nod, shooting Bradley a glance as you follow Javy out. “What is it?”

“You’re in for Little Women. Director and producers both wanted you over Carmen. Filming starts in two weeks.”

“Really?”

“Really. You did good. And you didn’t hear this from me, but Metcalf’s talking about trying to find another picture for you and Bradshaw to do together. If Pride and Prejudice does well.”

The idea of getting to work with Bradley again so soon fills you with a warmth you don’t expect, and don’t care to ascribe a name to.

“Thanks, Javy. I appreciate you looking out for me.”

“Any time. Talent like yours is hard to come by these days. They’re bumping your pay up too, by fifty dollars a week.”

You offer him more thanks, before heading back into the dressing room, failing entirely to hide your excitement.

“What was Javy saying?” Bradley asks, glancing up at you from his book.

“I got Little Women,” You reply, smiling widely.

It’s more than just a role. It’s the fact that you can make something of yourself in Hollywood, thanks to Pride and Prejudice. You can make a career out of the thing you love most in the world.

“You got Amy?” He’s on his feet immediately, arms circling your waist as he pulls you in for a hug. “Congrats, honey. Nobody deserves it more.”

“I thought they were going to go for Carmen,” You murmur, crossing your wrists behind his neck. It’s not the kind of hug you’d share with Javy, or Bob, but you push down that thought, and take a deep breath.

Bradley’s a friend. Something you really need right now. It doesn’t have to be anything more.

But when he presses a kiss to your forehead, hands still gripping your forearms, the all-familiar ache starts to resurface. “They’d have been crazy to choose anyone but you. You worked your ass off for hours on those scenes.”

Bradley had helped you run lines, as Laurie. Too old to play the part now, you know he would have been wonderful at it a few years ago.

Running the scene where Laurie tells Amy not to get married, you can’t help but feel a flickering of reality pulsing through its veins.

“It’s all happening, huh?”

“Yeah. I guess it is.”

It’s only when you’ve passed any reasonable doubt of friendship that you finally disentangle yourselves, an awkward laugh shared as you head back out to the set. They’re just wrapping up, and you get away early.

Bradley offers to walk you across the lot, but you politely decline. Jack’s taken to dropping by the apartment at all hours. As if he’s trying to catch you in a lie, find you spending time with Bradley after hours.

The worst part is that you can’t even call him crazy. Sure, Jack can be selfish and cold. But the idea of lying, of any kind of infidelity, makes your chest hurt.

*****

At Jack’s house that night, your news is met with complete indifference, and some more mutterings about Little Women being ‘a film for girls and fags’.

God, you really need a car. It was never a necessity in New York - you could walk from your Manhattan apartment to the theatres every day. But LA is so vast, you could be doing with a car just to get from one side of the WB lot to the other.

Maybe Reuben would teach you. Or Bradley.

Thanks to your lack of driving ability, you’re stranded at Jack’s until he drops you off at set the next day. Twenty minutes past your call time, despite the fact that you’ve been up since seven, trying to cajole him into getting up. He only begun to stir when you threatened to call a cab. Or Bradley.

That hadn’t gone down well.

Murmured apologies as you bustle through hair and makeup, you finally drop into the seat beside Bradley, mildly out of breath and incredibly pissed off.

“Rough morning?”

“You could say that,” You reply dryly, incredibly grateful when Bradley doesn’t comment further. You know how he feels about Jack, it’s not something you need to rehash again.

“I uh, I got you something.”

A parcel is passed to you, wrapped far neater than you’d expect from Bradley. Fingers gentle, you pull at the ribbon, then the paper, to reveal the nicest copy of Little Women you’ve ever seen. “Oh, Bradley,” You breathe. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s a first edition. I know you like to read, and I know you’ve read the book before, but I thought a fancier copy might be a nice way to commemorate you getting the part-”

“I love it. Really.” You lean over to hug him. “Where did you even get this?”

“You’ve gotta let me have some secrets, Lizzie.”

The day passes quickly, with only a few scenes for you both. And when Bob Floyd calls a wrap on Pride and Prejudice, Bradley’s the first person you turn to.

*****

The wrap party starts as well as you expect it to. A tense exchange between Bradley and Jack on the red carpet leads to some excruciatingly awkward group photos. And when the photographers call for just you and Bradley, Jack’s expression is thunderous.

Bradley takes your hand, guiding you gently down the row of photographers. A seasoned pro, he shows you how to pose, fingers laced through yours the entire time. By the time you reach the end, Jack is nowhere to be seen.

You don’t see him again until dinner, having spent the early evening with Callie and Jake. When he slumps down in the seat next to you, you can smell the alcohol radiating from his pores. “Have fun with Bradshaw?”

“I’m doing my job,” You reply, voice clipped.

“Didn’t realise it was your job to fuck him too.”

You’re about to reply, snap back about his own habits, when the table begins to fill, and you both sink into a sullen silence.

Things don’t improve when the dancing starts. After some not-so-gentle encouragement from the producers, you and Jack move to the middle of the dance floor. The silence is deafening, drowning out any music from the orchestra, and you feel compelled to speak.

“I’m not sleeping with Bradley, and I don’t appreciate the insinuation that I am.”

“You want to, though.”

“I want you to stop being a jackass,” You reply, tone clipped. “You’ve been unpleasant for weeks.”

Jack just rolls his eyes. “I was doing you a favour, you know that? Least you could do is show some thanks.”

“You were doing me a favour by going out with me?” You almost can’t believe what you’re hearing. “Last I heard, you were the one who asked for my number.”

“I was offerin’ an opportunity for advancement that I thought you’d appreciate,” He snaps, and you flinch slightly at the tone. “All I wanted in return was a woman who knew her place in the world, and respected that. You might be the lead in this picture, but that’s not how it’s going to work from now on. You’re always going to be second fiddle to a man, and I figured it was better for you to be standing behind me, than a has-been like Bradley Bradshaw.”

“You’re a dick.”

You’re willing yourself not to cry, turning your cheek away from him. You won’t give him the satisfaction.

His voice is dripping in sarcasm. “Takes one to know one, doll.”

Bradley wouldn’t do this. Bradley wouldn’t say any of this to you, no matter how angry he was. It’s the only thought that runs through your head as you try to formulate a response.

Jack lets out a laugh at your silence, humourless and callous. “If you think he wants anything more from you than sex, you’ve got another thing coming. He’ll fuck you and move on before you even have your clothes back on.”

“You don’t know anything about him.”

“I beg to differ. I think I know a lot more about him than you do. You’re blinded by his attention, by his praise, but deep down he’s the same as me. Worse. Because I know what I am. Bradshaw likes to pretend he’s some martyr, like he hasn’t fucked half this city.”

Seemingly on a roll, he continues on. “You really think you’re going to be the one to change him? After hundreds of women, prettier and smarter, that you’ll be the one he falls for? Wishful thinking. But as far as I’m concerned, you’re welcome to each other. We’re through.”

With that, Jack’s storming off, weaving through the crowds towards the exit. His outburst is enough to draw eyes, and you glance around at all the unfamiliar old men staring back at you. Producers, studio heads, critics - anyone who’s anyone is here tonight.

And all their eyes are on you, as your lip quivers and a tear threatens to spill.

Shame prickles in your gut, at the idea of everything you’ve worked for over the past month being reduced to this moment. Being dumped by your actor boyfriend in front of a room full of the people who can make or break your career.

No one will care about Elizabeth Bennet - not when the gossip rags get their hands on this.

There’s nothing Hollywood loves more than a public humiliation ritual.

The orchestra continues to play, lights dancing on the fabric of the gorgeous blue velvet dress you had been so excited to wear tonight. It doesn’t seem so elegant anymore, seeped in Jack’s rejection - the way his eyes had barely given you a second glance, a half-hearted compliment thrown in your direction before the attention was back on him.

You had spent all day getting ready, hands shaking slightly as you pinned your hair up - before spending an hour getting your eyeshadow just right. The bigger stars were allotted hair and makeup artists - Grapes of Wrath hadn’t made enough of a splash for you to make the cut.

Jack didn’t even come to the door, instead opting to lean on the horn until you got the message, nearly tripping in your hurry on the way down your apartment stairs.

Bradley would have come to your door.

Just when you’re about to break, rush off the dance floor before you can embarrass yourself further, a hand comes to rest on your waist. Everything happens so quickly as Bradley pulls you against him, free hand lacing through your fingers.

You haven't seen him since the photographs at the start of the night - you'd assumed he'd found a girl to take home and bailed.

He’s so much taller than Jack, and you find yourself looking up at him. “What are you doing?” You hiss, trying desperately to keep your voice level.

“They want you to have a reaction - to cry and storm out. Don’t give them what they want.” His voice is low, head dipped so that only you can hear, as he starts to sway slowly. “Do whatever you need to do when you get home - but until then, you don’t give a fuck about Jack Winter, okay?”

All you can do is nod, overwhelmed by the eyes that continue to linger on your form - judging and harsh.

“Lean into me,” He instructs quietly. “Can I spin you?”

“Y-yeah,” You manage, breath hitching slightly.

The strings begin to swell, and as they do he spins you outwards, the faces of all the executives flashing in a blur. Everyone has the good sense to pretend to go back to their own conversations, striking up dances with their wives again - but they’re still watching your every move.

Your eyes meet his as he dips you, and you're suddenly very glad for his arm wrapped round your waist, keeping you upright.

“You look beautiful,” He murmurs. “And he's an idiot for not appreciating you.”

“You don't need to be nice,” You reply, face heating up. While you're grateful for the distraction, this just proves Bradley was right. You were an idiot for ever thinking that Jack Winter could be a long-term thing. “I know you hate him.”

“I do,” Bradley acknowledges. “But I very much don’t hate you.”

“You should,” You whisper. Self-loathing is easy. Comfortable. Especially when it probably mirrors the opinion of half the people in this room. At most, you’re met with indifference by the Warner Brothers executives. At worst? You’re a whore, someone who can’t keep a man for longer than a few weeks before pushing him away. “I’ve made such a mess of everything.”

“You haven't,” He insists, grip tightening just slightly. “You're young, you're new to this business, and you've gotta be nicer to yourself. Take it from the guy who’s fucked up in front of the press more times than anyone.”

Despite yourself, you let out a laugh, leaning into his touch. “How do you deal with it?”

The music speeds up slightly, and Bradley adjusts his pace duly, never missing a beat. “Truthfully? Alcohol and sex.” Seeing your expression, he stumbles on. “Not that I’m suggesting you do that. But I do think you deserve some champagne.”

The song draws to a close, and Bradley ushers you towards the bar, picking up two glasses before guiding you to a table near the back of the hall. It’s slightly removed from the rest of the crowds, a brief reprieve from the chaos.

“Jack Winter won’t have a career come 1936, I’m calling it now,” Bradley muses, elbow on the table as he leans towards you. In a move of boldness that surprises even yourself, your foot links with his as you reposition.

To an outsider, you and Bradley look like a couple in love, celebrating wrapping a love story that mirrors their own. You can’t help but hope people are paying attention, noticing how his arm is draped across the back of your chair, body focused entirely on you.

“Yeah? And why’s that?”

“I could go all night, really - he can’t act, he has zero charisma, and he’s a complete and utter tool.”

“Not sure your personal opinion on his character has much weight when it comes to the studios.”

Bradley scoffs, and you swear for a second his eyes flit to your lips. “It should.”

“Because you’re such an expert on everything?”

He nods, eyes glinting slightly under the candlelight. “See? You’re catching on. It’s not like my expertise is unfounded. I knew you were going to be a good Lizzie, even when the studio had their doubts.”

“No you didn’t!” You laugh. “I distinctly remember a scoff coming from your direction when Bob decided to cast me.”

“That doesn’t sound like me at all,” Bradley replies teasingly, before his voice drops even lower, a tone meant only for your ears. “In all seriousness, though - I’m glad it was you.”

“You just didn’t want to work with your ex,” You dismiss.

He shakes his head. “Kid, you’re incredible in this picture. I know you probably feel too close to it to be objective, but you’re the best actor I’ve ever worked with-”

“Don’t be ridiculous-”

“It’s the honest to god truth, I swear.”

You can’t help the skepticism that floats across your face. “But you’ve worked with Charlie Blackwood. She’s like, the best actress I’ve ever seen-”

“She doesn’t hold a candle to you, Lizzie.”

A lump forms in your throat. Bradley’s a wonderful actor. For all you know, he could be lying through his teeth right now, trying desperately to flatter you into his bed. Maybe it’s some sort of conquest thing. Proving that he can outdo Jack Winter, in all aspects of life. Maybe you’re a means to an end.

You try and force the thoughts out of your head. Bradley’s never given you any reason to think anything like that before, why should he start today?

“I-I might not have been at the start, but I’m glad you were my Darcy.”

My Darcy. Bradley’s eyes soften, and a silence falls over you both.

You don’t know why you do it. Why your body starts leaning in, entirely independent of your brain as you press your lips to his.

It's softer than the other kisses you've shared. And so different to Jack in every conceivable way. For Jack, kissing is simply a necessarily evil. Something he has to do for the appropriate amount of time before he can start taking your clothes off.

You think you could kiss Bradley for the rest of your life.

And then he’s pulling back.

“Sweetheart,” He begins, palm pressed against your waist. “You're not thinkin’ straight.”

“I’m thinking straighter than I have been in weeks.”

“You’ve been drinking, and you’re upset. I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret.”

His voice is soft, laced with a tenderness you so rarely see from him, and it just furthers your embarrassment. Something about Bradley renders you totally incapable of functioning like a normal human being. Instead, you manage to make a fool of yourself at every possible turn.

“I-I’m sorry,” You stammer, getting to your feet. One of the glasses of champagne tips with your movement, and Bradley’s hand shoots out to steady it. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Lizzie, wait-”

You don’t wait to hear the rest of his sentence, opting instead to beeline for the bathrooms.

*****

It takes less than five minutes for Callie to find you. “What the hell happened out there?”

You don’t reply, not trusting your voice to hold out. You make a feeble attempt to wipe your eyes, smudging all of your hard work from earlier.

“I mean, Jake said you fought with Winter, and then you and Bradshaw looked like you were about to jump each other, and now you’re crying. What happened, honey?”

“I’m such an idiot - w-we’ve just become friends, and then I kissed him, and he was so obviously embarrassed.”

“You kissed Bradley?”

“G-god, I’m such an idiot. I-I thought- I don’t know what I thought.”

You can feel a migraine forming. A product of the champagne and stress, you’re sure. Maybe some embarrassment too.

“What did he say?” Callie frowns, pulling you into a hug.

“He said I’d regret it - that I was too upset.”

“You know I hate to defend a man, especially Bradley Bradshaw, but I think he might be right. You’re not exactly in the best frame of mind tonight. And what kind of man would let a drunk girl make a move on him, and not stop before things go too far?”

Jack. The name tastes bitter on your tongue.

“Everything’s so messy, and it’s all my fault.”

“You’re just having a bad night,” Callie murmurs soothingly. “Listen. How about I go get Jake to drive you home? Then tomorrow, you’ll have a clear head, and we can talk everything through. I don’t think this will feel as bad when you’re sober.”

You can’t think of anything worse than heading back inside, putting on a smile for half of Warner Brothers, so you nod. “Okay.”

“Get yourself cleaned up, then go wait outside the hall, alright? I’ll send him out.”

“Thanks, Cal.”

“Don’t mention it. I’ve got your back. And if you’d like Jack Winter to pass away mysteriously tonight, I can make that happen too.”

*****

Bradley’s hanging outside the women’s bathroom. Not so close as to come across as creepy, but close enough that he can grab you when you finally emerge.

Instead, a furious-looking Callie Bassett emerges, eyes stormy. She grabs the cuff of his shirt, and begins to pull him away from the crowds, to a deserted corner of the hall.

“Listen to me, Bradshaw,” Callie hisses. She barely reaches Bradley’s chin. And yet there’s something deeply terrifying about the way she’s glaring up at him. He can’t even imagine what she’d do to Winter if she ever got her hands on him.

“You don’t want to hurt her,” She begins, and Bradley nods emphatically. He doesn’t want to hurt you. Quite the opposite. He knows for a fact that he could make you happier than Jack Winter ever could. But every choice he makes these days seems to be the wrong one. “Because if you do - I will kill you.”

In a normal circumstance, he’d laugh. At the idea that the woman who plays the nicest character in the entire picture could be capable of murder. Instead, he swallows, and nods. “I believe you.”

“Good. Now, take her home and try not to make her cry any more tonight.”

There’s a flicker of something in her eyes, that Bradley can’t quite catch. Acceptance? Encouragement? Either way, it feels like the closest thing he’s ever had to Callie’s approval. It’s not something he takes lightly. “You’re kind of scary, you know that?”

“You haven’t seen the half of it. But if you fuck up, I will find out. So keep that in mind.”

“Got it.”

“She’s waiting outside. I told her Jake would drive her home. You’re going to apologise, and be the biggest gentleman she’s ever seen, before driving her home yourself.”

Truthfully, Bradley had already been planning on doing that. But he doesn’t think Callie would be too happy to hear that right now. She already looks like she’s one wrong move away from committing a homicide.

*****

You don’t know how long you’re wallowing in your own self-pity before Bradley appears. “Callie said you were looking for a ride home?”

You should've known it wouldn't have been as easy as hitching a ride with Jake.

“I don’t want to pull you away from the party.”

He shrugs. “Parties are only as good as the people attending. If you’re leaving, it’s about to get a hell of a lot more dull.” When you don’t answer, he takes a tentative step forward, offering his arm. “Please? I was leaving anyway, and you’re on my way home.”

Despite your brain screaming at you to keep your distance, you find yourself nodding, and loop your arm through his. Bradley leads you to the valets, and helps you into the passenger side.

“Do you want to talk about… anything?” The kiss, Jack, Bradley. You’re not sure what he’s referring to, but none of those options sound particularly appealing right now.

You shake your head, and he nods. “Alright. When do you start filming Little Women?”

“Two weeks. I have three weeks, then a week in New England for onsite filming, then two more weeks.”

“You know the rest of the cast yet?”

“Just Reuben as Laurie.”

“That’s good,” Bradley replies, eyes firmly on the road. “He’ll be a good Laurie.” He’ll look out for you, too. Bradley doesn’t say that part.

A silence falls again, more comfortable than earlier, and Bradley begins pulling onto the lot. He walks you up to your landing, hand settled firmly on the small of your back to make sure you don’t trip. From his limited experience of you and alcohol, he knows you don’t tend to hold it too well.

“Let me take you out to lunch tomorrow?” He asks, arm braced above you as he leans against the doorframe. “Make it up to you.”

“You don’t have anything to make up for-” You begin, but he’s shaking his head.

“You had a shitty night tonight, and I don’t want that to be your last memory of this film.” When you still don’t look convinced, he continues. “I’m not taking no for an answer, kid.”

“I’m sorry about the kiss,” You murmur, suddenly unable to meet his gaze.

“Don’t be. I just don’t want you to wake up in the morning filled with unfathomable regret because you didn’t mean to kiss Bradley Bradshaw.”

“I wouldn’t regret it.”

Bradley’s breath hitches just slightly, before he regains his composure. “Tell me that again when there’s no alcohol in your system, and we can talk.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Depends on if you’re taking me up on lunch.”

You smile for the first time in hours, and Bradley feels his heart lighten just a little. “I think I could fit it in.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up at twelve, alright?” He pauses for a second. “You’re okay here alone tonight?”

You nod, touched by his concern. “I’m okay. Thanks for driving me home.”

“Any time, honey.” Bradley steps forward, pressing the briefest of kisses to the top of your head. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow.”

Your apartment door is closed, and you head over to the window to watch Bradley pull out of the lot. He catches your eye through the window, flashing you a smile and wave, before he’s gone, and you’re left to muddle through the events of the night.

Chapter Text

You realise very quickly that Bradley’s compunction for lateness is entirely within his own control, saved for studios and people he doesn’t like. He’s never once been late to pick you up - his car is always in the lot five minutes before he’s due, and he knocks right on time.

You don’t quite know what the dress code is for today, so you opt for some kitten heels, and a pastel summer dress you brought from New York. Not exactly star quality, but the only option in your closet that didn’t make you want to burn it.

Bradley doesn’t seem to notice, eyes landing a little lower than would be deemed appropriate. “You look beautiful.”

You hadn’t even noticed the flowers in his hands, as he passes them over. “You shouldn’t have-”

“I wanted to,” He replies, voice firm. “Nothin’ more than that.”

Your smile grows, as you head down to his car. “Where are we going?”

“You ever been to Santa Monica?”

You shake your head. The lack of car keeps you pretty confined to the city centre. “Like the pier?”

“Yeah. Thought it might be nice. Normal, too.”

The drive down is filled with chatter, about the books you’re both reading, and the fact that Bradley’s contract at Paramount got renewed.

“That’s a good sign, right? That they extended before the movie’s even out.”

“Yeah,” Bradley muses. “I think so.”

The restaurant he picks for lunch is a lot lower key than Perino’s, and you’re grateful. Arriving through the back door, you don’t feel like anyone’s taking any note of you, much less watching your every move.

“I have a question,” You begin, picking at the salad on your plate. “And feel free to say no, I’d totally get it-”

“What is it?”

“Well, I was thinking about the fact that you really need to be able to drive to get about properly here - and that wasn’t an issue in New York, so I just never learned. A-and I was wondering, if you’d maybe teach me to drive? Callie doesn’t drive either, so I can’t ask her, and Reuben’s about to go to New York for a play, and-”

“Course I’ll teach you, kid. Don’t worry about it.”

“Yeah? I’ve uh, I’ve never done it before, at all - so it would be from scratch.”

“Even better. Don’t have to unlearn any bad habits.” His eyes are crinkled, and he leans in just slightly. “We can start whenever you want. You’ll be speedin’ down Mulholland Drive in no time.”

You wonder if it’s the actor in him that always knows exactly what to say at any given time.

But if you were tallying up the good days of your life, today would be pretty near the top. After lunch, your hand stays firmly laced through his as you walk down to the pier, talking about your childhoods, and what you want from the future, and everything in between.

Your heart soars when a couple pass you, maybe in their early seventies, commenting on ‘what a lovely young couple you both make’. Bradley had sent them his signature movie star grin, and pulled you in tighter, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.

He takes the scenic route back, tracing patterns onto your skin as he presses kisses to your cheeks at every stop. You head back to Mulholland Drive, pleasantly surprised when he isn’t on you as soon as the door closes.

He’s not Jack, you have to continually remind yourself. Instead, he puts a record on, fetches a bottle of wine, and the conversation storms on.

“Alright, kid - what’s your role?” He asks, handing you the wine glass as he sits down, pulling your ankle until your feet rest in his lap.

You're forced to shuffle up, almost pressed against his side.

The position doesn't feel friendly. It feels domestic. Like you and Bradley have done this hundreds of times before.

“My role?” You repeat, frowning slightly, as you try and steady your breathing.

“You know - the dream. The one you’d kill to play. The one you’re sure you could do better than anybody else in the world.”

It’s not even close. “Daisy Buchanan in The Great Gatsby.”

He lets out a low whistle. “You had that one ready to go.”

“I just really like the book-”

“I think you'd be good at it.”

“Yeah?” You murmur, smile widening at his words. “You think so?”

He nods solemnly. “I don't joke about the movies, sweetheart.”

*****

You spend every day with Bradley, and see more of Los Angeles than you have in months in just one week. It’s such a stark contrast to Jack, in every way.

But you still haven’t slept with him. What’s more, he hasn’t given much indication that he wants to. He drops you off, kisses you once, and goes home.

It's the same as it always is. A kiss, deep and slow, just on the inside of your apartment - tucked behind the bookcase and away from the prying eyes of any studio executives across the street. One hand settles on your waist, the other curling at the nape of your neck, holding you close to him.

Your hands rest on his chest, fisting at the soft fabric. Nose tilting up of its own accord, you melt into his touch. The same as always.

He deepens it ever so slightly, nose brushing yours as his arm snakes around your waist. The smallest advancement from yesterday. As if every day is a challenge to hold back, and all he can allow himself is one slip.

And then, just like always, he pulls back. Forehead resting against yours, he presses one last kiss to your cheek as he withdraws.

“Goodnight, kid.”

“Goodnight, Bradley.”

I love you.

You close the door, leaning back against it as you try and catch your breath. Waiting until the tell-tale sounds of his car sound, you open the door again, and pad across the landing to Callie’s apartment.

Jake opens the door, eyes bleary and wide with confusion. “What are you-”

“I need to talk to your girlfriend,” You interrupt, pushing back and heading straight for the bedroom. You’re not supposed to have visitors after-hours. Normally, that means Jake and Callie are at his house. You’re not quite sure why they’re slumming it on the lot tonight, but you aren’t complaining.

Despite Jake’s confusion, Callie looks less than surprised. She pats the bed, and you crawl up, slotting in beside her.

Jake watches his odds of sex shrivel into nothing, and lets out a sigh before retreating to the kitchen.

“Sorry, Jake!” You call, before turning your attention back to Callie. “He kissed me, and then left. Again.”

“Don’t you ever invite him in? Maybe he doesn’t want to overstep?”

“I just don’t get it,” You huff. “He’s so touchy during the day, hands and kissing, whatever - but as soon as it comes to the end of the day, and I could be staying at his, he’s suddenly desperate to drive me home.”

“He probably knows that you’re aware of his… history. Maybe he’s trying to do it right.”

“Or maybe he’s sleeping with other people.”

“I… I don’t think that’s the case,” Callie says slowly. “And I’d tell you if I thought it was. I really think he’s just trying to be a gentleman. Let you take the lead.”

“I wish he’d stop,” You mumble, scrunching your eyes shut. “I feel like I’m giving him as many signals as I can, and he’s not picking up on any of them.”

“Hate to break it to you, Lizzie-” Jake’s voice interjects. “-But he’s a man. We’re not known for our emotional intelligence.”

Callie’s about to wave Jake off, tell him it’s a private conversation, but you cock your head slightly. “What should I do then?”

“I think Cal’s right. You’ve gotta make the move. Do it at the premiere.”

“You think?”

“Kid, men are morons. If you want something, you need to do it yourself.”

You think to yourself, before nodding. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll sleep on it. Sorry for disturbing you guys.”

“Appreciate the apology-”

“Don’t listen to Jake, honey. You’re welcome whenever.”

*****

His lips are on yours again, though you're not by your front door. Instead, you're draped across one of the loungers in his backyard, wearing nothing but a lace nightgown.

Bradley's hands, big and strong, brace under it, bunching the fabric just under your breasts as he leans over you.

“Pretty girl,” He hums, massaging the skin softly. The Hollywood sign looms above his head - some kind of metaphor, you're sure. But not one you're giving any thought to, not when his hands are slipping lower with every passing second. “You okay?”

All you can manage is a nod, his fingertips leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

“Use your words, kid. You've got a nice voice - let's put it to good use.”

“W-want you to keep going,” You pant, as Bradley’s fingers trace the outline of your underwear.

You bolt upright, chest heaving as you try to orientate yourself.

You're not on Mulholland Drive, you're not in Bradley's home - you're across town on the Warner Brothers lot, flushed and frustrated.

It's been bad enough living with the visuals of what being with Bradley could be like - but the addition of smells, tastes, feelings, however fictional they may be, make you want to scream.

The heat is still coiled low in your stomach, and you adjust uncomfortably, desperately trying to rid yourself of the image of him between your legs, fingers circling your clit lazily as he kisses you.

It doesn't work.

Nothing works. He’s all you can see when you close your eyes, invading every possible sense.

You lie in bed for another ten minutes trying to clear your head, before your eyes flutter closed again, and your hand snakes downwards.

You're just stressed. That's all it is.

Some release would do you good. So instead of pushing away the thoughts of Bradley, you welcome them.

You think about what he would do if he was here. How he’d start the night in the old wicker chair in the corner, glass of whiskey in hand as the two of you spoke about music, and books, and the movies you wanted to make.

At one point you’d get up, fixing you both more drinks - you’d slip a record on while you were at it. Something light, not too overbearing, but not too sensual either. You don’t want to imply. Not like that.

But on your way back from the gramophone, Bradley’s arm might reach out, tugging at your wrist until you’re on the chair beside him, practically in his lap.

The chat would continue for a while longer, but you’d both know where it was going. His eyes dropping to your lips occasionally, your hand creeping up his chest. It wouldn’t be until both drinks were completely finished that he’d lean over and press his lips to yours. The whiskey would mix with the wine, as your tongue traces the seam of his mouth. You'd deepen it first, you're almost positive.

His arm would snake round your waist, repositioning you over his thighs as his hands trail over your body.

He’d tell you how pretty you were, that you were being such a good girl for him. That he’s thought about you as much as you have him.

And when he finally makes love to you, it would be nothing like Jack Winter. He’d lay you down on the bed, and settle between your legs, and he'd kiss you softly as he thrust into you, slow and deep. He'd hold your hand, and trail his lips along your jaw, and he'd look into your eyes.

And you'd know that he meant every word, every action.

*****

There's a tinge of embarrassment when Bradley picks you up the next day. As if he can somehow read your mind, know the ache that arises between your legs every time he gets too close.

Dressed in loose linen pants, and a light blue shirt, your throat tightens just seeing him. He looks better in real life than he does on screen, if that's even possible.

His shoulders impossibly broad, his hair allowed to hang in its natural curl, and a scratch of stubble has appeared - his first efforts to regrow the moustache since Pride and Prejudice wrapped.

You're not sure there's anyone in the world better suited to being a star than Bradley Bradshaw.

Whenever he speaks to anyone - whether it be a fan, producer, or another actor, they feel like the only person in the world. He has such a singular focus, it's dizzying to have it all directed at you.

Today, he's taking you to Hollywood Boulevard, for a picture and then lunch at the Hollywood Roosevelt.

Sunglasses donned, providing as much anonymity as Bradley Bradshaw will ever be afforded, his hand slips into yours as he helps you out of his car. You've managed to avoid the press this time round, opting for back entrances and quieter restaurants.

There have been a few mentions of Bradley's ‘mystery girl’ in the tabloids, but aside from a few blurred photos, no one's been able to identify you yet.

Today, he parks just off the main road, tucked into the bottom of the Hollywood Hills, and you walk. It's not far, five minutes at most, but it puts you both at ease a little.

Nobody expects Bradley to walk anywhere. Instead, the two of you look like a normal couple, wanting to enjoy the start of your weekend.

“What do you want to see?”

“There's that new Cleopatra film - I read about it in the papers, it sounds good,” You reply, as Bradley leads you up to the ticket booth. You don't bother reaching for your purse - you could be the richest woman in the world, and Bradley still wouldn't let you touch it.

Tickets bought, you head into the Egyptian Theatre. It's an early showing, and there's nobody else here yet.

“In a few weeks it'll be our picture playing in here,” You murmur, glancing over at him. “It's crazy.”

He hums slightly, hand settling on your thigh as he leans over to press a kiss to your cheek.

Bradley's a very affectionate man. And while neither of you are hiding whatever this is, he also doesn't want to draw unnecessary attention to you both. So he exchanges kisses for a hand on your waist, or your thigh, a steadfast sign that he's always there.

“These are your last few weeks of a normal life,” He replies. “You'll be the most famous girl in the world soon.”

You scoff. “We don't know the film is even going to do well.”

“Speak for yourself. I know it's going to do well.”

“You’re just being optimistic,” You roll your eyes.

“I’m actually notoriously pessimistic, honey. So if I think this film is going to be a smash, it will be.”

A smile tugs at your lips, as the film starts, and a quiet falls over you both.

The following half hour after the movie finishes is spent dissecting it in immense detail - from directorial choices, to costume design, Bradley wants to talk about it all. And he listens. Really listens. He wants to know why you would have done an over-the-shoulder instead of a close-up, or why you would have chosen different lighting.

You walk down the Boulevard, stopping dutifully when some young girls recognise Bradley. Even when talking to them, chatting and signing whatever scraps of paper they have, he never leaves your side. He even goes so far as to introduce you to them, insist that they’ll be wanting to meet you over him soon, much to your embarrassment.

A few more people recognise Bradley in the Roosevelt, nervously approaching as you both eat. For all you’d heard of him being grumpy and uncooperative, you’ve never seen him be anything less than humble and gracious to every fan who has ever spoken to him.

“Fans make the man,” He’d told you once. “Would be pretty shit if they spent their money on coming to see my pictures, and I couldn’t even stop to chat for a while.”

The sun starts to set, and soon you’re back in the car, heading up Mulholland. “A pit-stop before I drop you off,” He says softly, pulling over at one of the view points. It’s further round from Bradley’s house, and you’ve never come this far.

The lookout gives you the perfect view of Los Angeles. Lights dancing in the distance, you think it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. “Can’t believe you get to live here,” You murmur, as Bradley settles against your back, his arms caging you in against the railing.

His lips ghost over your temple, as he tucks his head into the crook of your neck, resting on your shoulder. “Wait until Pride and Prejudice comes out - people’ll start throwing money at you, and you’ll be able to live wherever you want.” Or maybe you could live with me.

It goes unsaid, but you can’t help imagining what it could be like. That dream could be your reality. Making movies together, sharing a life - you can’t think of anything better.

“I had a really nice day today.”

“Yeah? I’m glad, kid. I had a good time too. Are we still on for tomorrow?”

You think it’s endlessly sweet that he continues to assume your social calendar is packed, when it usually consists entirely of him, Reuben and Callie. Especially when you aren’t shooting.

You nod. “Callie was wondering if we wanted to go out for dinner with her and Jake next Saturday? Thought it might be quite nice after the premiere.”

“I think it’s funny to assume Jake’s going to be in dinner condition after his first major premiere, but of course. Whatever you want, Lizzie.”

You’re not sure how much longer you stand there for, watching the sun set on the City of Angels. But when Bradley finally pulls back, murmurs something about needing to get you home, it’s only with significant reluctance that you let him guide you back to the car.

When you step back onto the lot, you’re surprised to see Mike Metcalf emerging from the offices, followed by a group of producers. All men. All far older than you.

You get out of Bradley’s car, and he’s immediately by your side.

One of the producers says your name, and you fidget nervously with your bag. “Yes?”

“We'd like a word, please. Follow me.”

You frown, as the crowd of men head upstairs to the executive offices. Metcalf stays standing at the bottom of the steps, a hand beckoning you forwards. A pit forms in your stomach, at the idea that you’ve done something wrong. That there might be a problem with your contract, or you. Maybe they don’t want you for Little Women anymore. Maybe they’ve found someone better.

You glance at Bradley, who senses your nerves immediately. “Why?” He asks Metcalf, hand dropping to the small of your back.

“This doesn’t concern you, Mr Bradshaw.”

Bradley’s voice dips low. “Kid, do you want me to go?” You shake your head, lip between your teeth, and he turns his attention back to Metcalf. “I think it does concern me, actually. It’s Friday night. Why the hell are you doing whatever this is now?”

“We’re just a little concerned at the amount of time you’ve been spending off the lot. As you know, we pride ourselves on actor satisfaction-”

“Bullshit,” Bradley snorts.

“But we’d like to remind you that there’s an expectation that you be on the lot when you aren’t working.”

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to listen to them. They can’t force you to do anything like that, it’s not in your contract. And if they keep having a problem with it, I’m sure Chester Cain at Paramount would love to offer you a better contract-”

Based on what Bradley’s told you about Chester Cain, you’re almost positive that isn’t true. But you nod anyway, grateful for the intimidation tactic. By virtue of your gender, Bradley holds cards that you never will.

“That’s not necessary-” Mike interjects, eyes widening at the threat. “It was just a suggestion. I don’t think we need to make any hasty decisions surrounding contracts right now. At least, not until the film is out.”

“Good,” Bradley replies, voice curt. “And I don’t want to hear about her getting any more grief on the matter, okay? None of this pulling her upstairs with hundreds of old men, trying to scare her into doing whatever you want.”

Metcalf nods, and Bradley begins to steer you away from them all, back towards your apartment. “Fucking pricks,” He mutters. “Can’t believe they’re trying to police where you go. If any of them ever make you feel uncomfortable, or try and get into your apartment, I want you to call me. I’ll come, or I’ll send Manny over with the car. And if you can’t get me, call Reuben. He’s only next door-”

“Bradley,” You murmur, voice soft as you look up at him. The concern is touching, but you are fighting the urge to laugh just a little at his over-protectiveness. “They’re not going to try and get into my apartment.”

He falters just slightly. “I just don’t trust them.”

“Well, from what I’m hearing, it sounds like you’re giving me permission to call you at all hours of the day.”

“Honey, you’ve had that right for weeks. That’s not new.”

He walks you right to your door, bidding you goodbye with the same kiss as always, before making sure you lock your door after he goes.

Just a few more days until the premiere. Then you can make a move.

Chapter Text

“Bradley,” You gape, slowing to a stop as he leads you out of his house. “You cannot teach me to drive in the Rolls-Royce.”

Eyes crinkled, his hold on you tightens and he continues to pull you forwards. “Why not?”

“It’s so expensive!”

He lets out a laugh, low and hearty. “Would you rather learn in the Cadillac?”

“I’d rather learn in a car that doesn’t cost more than my apartment.”

“Well, unfortunately for you, I have excellent taste in cars, so that might be a problem.” He drops his head, pressing a kiss first to your forehead, then to the bridge of your nose, and finally your lips. You chase the movement, the slight smoky taste that seems to hover by him at all times.

His pace is languid, entirely unhurried as he leans into you. He’s been relaxed all morning, chaste kisses and hand-holding over pancakes.

It’s almost silly, how quickly you’ve been reduced to your teenage self, desperate for his approval. Especially when he’s so willing to give it out in spades.

Grip firm, it’s a stark juxtaposition from how soft his lips are. You couldn’t detach yourself from him even if you wanted to.

In other men, it would be a sign of dominance. A reminder that regardless of his words, that he holds the upper hand. But in Bradley, it just feels safe. A silent promise that he’s looking out for you.

Before you can even register what’s happening, he has you pressed up against the Rolls-Royce. “’S just a car,” He mumbles in between kisses. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Don't you have any normal cars?”

He's laughing again, pulling back to open the car door. “This is LA, kid. Gotta learn in style.”

The twisting of Mulholland Drive does not make for a good learning environment, so Bradley makes the drive to Calabasas, a far quiet residential area. His hand remains on your thigh the entire drive, and at each stoplight he’s leaning over to kiss you again.

“Shouldn’t you be watching the road?” You mumble, a half-hearted attempt at pushing him away as his stubble scratches your cheek. You have an endless amount of love and appreciation for Bob Floyd, but forcing Bradley to lose the moustache is a near unforgivable crime. Bradley assures that it’ll be back in a few months, but you very much miss it.

“Are you trying to give me driving tips? On the way to your first driving lesson ever?”

“We aren’t going to make it to my first driving lesson ever if you don’t keep your hands to yourself,” You retort, sticking your tongue out.

Finally pulling over in a side street, the two of you swap sides, and Bradley starts instructing you. He’s a good teacher, endlessly patient when you keep stalling, only grabbing the wheel when you pose a real threat to his car. It takes some getting used to, but eventually you start to get the hang of things.

It helps that every time you do something well, there’s a murmured *good girl* in your ear. He’s nothing if not motivational. He offers to let you make the drive back to the house, but you decline, opting instead for his hand back on your thigh while he drives.

He makes it look so easy, one hand on the wheel as he reverses out of the parking space. While you very much want to learn, have your own car eventually, you can’t help but enjoy the idea of Bradley driving you around.

It’s the run-up to the premiere now, and Warner Brothers are intent on making sure everything is just right. That extends to curating your entire look, as well as that of the other Bennet sisters. Each one has been put in a different pastel, with the idea that you should all co-ordinate.

Bradley was left with instructions that his tie should match your dress, but no one at WB was stupid enough to try and police his suit. None of the executives have mentioned Jack Winter to you since the wrap party - everyone is too busy pushing the narrative of you and Bradley.

No longer will you be the ‘*Bradshaw mystery girl*’ - after you debut as a couple at the premiere, you’re sure you’ll be all over the tabloids come Monday morning.

It’s funny what a little press does for a movie. Pride and Prejudice has gone from something everybody expects to fail, to their highest hope for awards season. It’s dizzying.

They set you all up in the Beverly Hills Hotel. Quite why Warner Brothers goes for that over the Roosevelt - which is just across the road from the Chinese Theatre - you aren’t sure. You don’t plan on going back to it anyway. If tonight goes as it should, you’ll be spending the night with him on Mulholland Drive.

Getting ready for the premiere is the most glamorous you’ve ever felt in your life. Sharing a suite with Callie, you’re supplied with as much champagne as you can possibly drink, and a lovely stylist named Elena who helps you with your hair and makeup.

It’s far more effort than you would normally put into your appearance, but you’re enjoying the fuss. And it’s hard not to think about Bradley right upstairs. He wasn’t too thrilled at being shoved in with Jake to allow Warner Brothers to cut costs, but dropped the matter at your behest.

He continues to insist that he doesn’t like Jake, but you don’t believe it for a second. Sure, they get on each other’s nerves, and have had yelling matches on more than one occasion, but from what you hear from Callie, they’re also scarily similar. Maybe just too similar to ever be truly good friends.

As the stars, you and Bradley have some interviews to do before the premiere, so you have an earlier call time than the others. But when Bradley knocks on the door to the hotel room, you freeze. A sudden nervousness washes over you, before you try and quell the anxiety.

Finishing your champagne, you wave Elena off and move to open the door. The pale pink of his tie perfectly matches your bodice.

Bradley’s entirely silent, eyes trailing down the length of your dress. The quiet is disconcerting, and you find yourself fidgeting slightly. “Are you going to say something? Or are we channelling the silent era tonight?”

He snorts, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I just… wow. You look incredible.”

You can feel the heat rising to your cheeks, and you glance back inside the room, where Callie’s pretending not to be listening to everything the two of you are saying. “You look good too. Very Hollywood.”

“That’s the aim,” Bradley replies, voice smooth as he offers you his arm. “You ready?”

“Do you ever feel ready?”

“Good answer.”

*****

Three men make passes at you in the hour it takes for you to reach the limousine that’s taking you to the Chinese Theatre. Bradley remained composed initially, ever the suave movie-star, but the slight tick of his jaw continues to give away his true feelings on the matter. It thrills you a little, to see him so bothered.

When he kisses you deeply in the back of the car, practically pulling you onto his lap, you’re more than happy to oblige. Finally pulling back as the limo pulls up to the red carpet, some of your lipstick is smudged across his cheek, a deep red imprint.

He’s about to get out, open the door for you, when you stop him. “Wait - you’ve got some-” You trail off, reaching out with your thumb, but he shrugs your advance off. “Bradley, you have lipstick on your face.”

“I don’t care.” There’s an air of almost petulance to his tone. It makes you want to laugh.

“Are you… *jealous*?”

He lets out a small sigh. “Kid, after tonight, every man in Hollywood will want to sleep with you.”

“I don’t want every man in Hollywood,” You reply, gaze trained on him.

He’s about to reply, when the door opens, and a staff member leans in to usher you both out.

The wave of noise is overwhelming. You aren’t even out of the car yet, and it’s invading your every sense. Maybe this is going to be a bigger success than anybody thought. Bradley gives your hand a gentle squeeze, before clambering out of the car.

You can hear the crowd roar for him, excitement radiating off of the photographers as he smiles and waves. Then he’s turning back towards you, and the cheers grow… louder? Taking his hand, you step out of the car, immediately ambushed by flashlights and shouts. If you thought going to restaurants with Bradley was overpowering, this is a whole new ball park.

You’re greeted by some of the movie’s producers - Errol Marksman makes the first step forward. The youngest of them all, he still sits at around forty-five.

“You look gorgeous, darling.” His voice is rich, coloured by years of extravagance. You’d be surprised if Errol’s set foot inside a grocery store in the last decade. His hands clasp yours, as he presses a light kiss to your knuckles. “They’re going to love you.”

“They already do,” Bradley interjects, gesturing towards the reporters and photographers. “And we don’t want to keep them waiting, do we?”

There’s a reluctance to Errol’s movements, as he releases you back into Bradley’s grasp, who begins to lead you down the carpet.

"He's too old for you," Bradley murmurs into your ear, head dipped slightly as his arm snakes round your waist. You can feel the warmth of his palm radiating through your dress, and still fight back a shiver.

The roar of the photographers doubles, voices shouting at you from every angle to pose.

"And you're not?" You quirk an eyebrow, glancing up at him.

He shrugs. "Maybe I am. They don't seem to think so, though.”

As if to prove his point, he presses the briefest kiss to your temple, smile growing wider as the crowd in front of the theatre erupts into cheers.

"You're a star now, kid. This is your life from here on out.”

Filled with a sudden confidence, you turn to Bradley and press your lips to his. The roar triples as Bradley dips you down low, hand firmly secured at your hip.

There’s a moment where everything else disappears, and all that matters is Bradley.

How far you’ve come. From being unable to stand his presence, to spending almost every waking moment by his side.

He pulls you back to standing, and the world comes rushing back in full technicolour. There’s even more of your lipstick transferred to his lips, but this time he lets you wipe at it, softly with your thumb. There’s no need for a visual claim after *that*.

Everyone on the carpet wants to talk to you both - journalists and executives alike. But when the rest of the cast starts to trickle in, including Bob and Javy, everyone gets swept up. A few group photos, and soon you’re being shepherded inside for the start of the film.

Bradley tosses some well-placed glares at the Warner Brothers executives, with anyone who’s ever made you feel uncomfortable facing the majority of his wrath.

Whoever coined the narrative that Bradley Bradshaw is brooding and mysterious got it dead wrong - that man loves a gossip more than anything else. Even if he’s never met any of the parties in question, he’ll sit and listen to all your New Hampshire high-school drama - from your best friend getting pregnant at sixteen, to that time a teacher got fired for having an affair with one of the parents, Bradley knows it all.

He was also more than happy to get an itemised list of everybody on the lot who’s ever upset you. From as small as closing doors in your face, he took note of every face. He knows that you’re capable of handling things yourself, but he’s well aware of how this industry works - you’re young, and that puts a target on your back. Even if the two of you aren’t together forever, an idea he doesn’t let fester, he wants you to be in good standing for a long and illustrious career, free from the perverts who hold the strings.

Further cheers erupt as the cast make their way into the theatre. You would never have guessed that some investment in Bradley Bradshaw’s personal life could have led to so many people being excited about Lizzie and Darcy.

You all take your seats, and the movie begins.

*Pride and Prejudice* plays in the background, but you haven't been able to focus on a second of it. Not with Bradley's hand on your thigh, his thumb rubbing absent-minded circles through your dress.

In the front row of the balcony, you know the attention isn't on either of you for the first time tonight. They're too busy watching the audience reactions below you - waiting with bated breaths to see if this is Warner Brothers’ next big hit, or if you're going to be out of a job tomorrow.

Everybody could be walking out, and you wouldn't even notice.

Instead, you're focused on inching your hand along the armrest, almost painfully slowly, trying desperately to seem like you're casually looping your arm through his.

The way his lip quirks slightly as you make contact lets you know you're caught, but he has the decency not to comment on it.

“You okay, kid? You look a little warm.” It’s a tone only meant for you, coated in velvet as he dips his head towards yours.

It takes every acting lesson you’ve ever had to summon a huff, feigning annoyance as you relax slightly, tucking your arm round his forearm. “It’s just stuffy in here.”

He can barely hide his grin. “Hm. Just stuffy. Sure.”

Feeling slightly more confident, you rest your head against his shoulder, and turn your attention back to the movie.

Coincidentally, you're just in time for the kiss scene. Near the end of the picture, it's cut significantly from what you both filmed. You understand - you can't imagine Warner Brothers being eager to use the two-minute makeout from when neither of you heard Bob yell cut.

Too soon, it’s ending, and applause fills the theatre. It’s not polite, or courteous in any way. The crowd *loves* it.

“Told you,” Bradley mumbles into your ear, shooting you a grin as the lights come on. “You just became the most famous woman in Hollywood.”

***

The afterparty roars around you both, a cacophony of noise and congratulations. It’s been a total whirlwind - excited celebrations with the cast, and then some more interviews for you, Bradley and Bob.

The whisperings are quiet, but undoubtedly there. That had been the best reception a Warner Brothers film has ever had at premiere. Managing to hit all the right notes between drama, comedy, romance - Robert Floyd had somehow pulled it off.

Going from being a perpetual wallflower at Los Angeles gatherings to the very centre of attention is certainly an adjustment - it boggles your mind how this has been Bradley’s life for the past fifteen years. You’ve both been fielding questions about your relationship all night, diligently laying out the timeline for people.

*Yes, we met on set. No, it didn’t happen immediately. After Jack Winter. Yes, we’d like to work together again. You’d have to ask Warner Brothers that one.*

“Bradshaw!” A voice cuts through the sound, clear and poised. You turn, coming face to face with Natasha Trace. Having only ever seen her from a distance, coming down Bradley’s driveway, your jaw drops a little. She’s prettier in person - difficult to do when you’re gorgeous on-screen, but Natasha manages.

It’s a quiet confidence, different to the one that radiates from Bradley.

Bradley’s all rough edges and loud charm - it’s almost abrasive, like he’s daring anyone to challenge it. He knows exactly who he is and how to get what he wants, in a way that’s both inspiring and a little terrifying.

Natasha’s confidence settles into the silence - it doesn’t need to be announced. Instead, it’s *felt*. By every single person in this room, you’d reckon.

“How does it feel being back on top?” She pulls him in for a quick hug, the first time he’s let go of you all night.

“Film isn’t even out Nat - let’s not get ahead of ourselves. This is Lizzie-”

He gestures towards you, stepping back into your personal space, like it’s precisely where he’s meant to be. You roll your eyes at the nickname, but in all honestly, it’s grown on you. No longer a placeholder for a name he couldn’t be bothered to learn, it’s now something solely for you and Bradley.

Not an inside joke, per se - everybody knows what it means, but you like the intimacy. Even when it’s starting to catch on, spread throughout the cast, it’s not the same as when Bradley does it.

“I’ve heard lots about you,” Natasha replies, leaning over to kiss your cheek. “Bradley’s very smitten-”

“*Nat*,” He groans, but you cut him off, grinning widely.

“No, no - let her talk.”

Before Natasha can reply, divulge all of Bradley’s secrets, he changes the subject. “I’m not sure introducing you two was a good idea.”

“I beg to differ, Bradshaw.” Natasha’s arm is laced through yours. “I think we’re going to be great friends. Now, we’re going to socialise without you for a little while. I can see the way you’ve been clinging to each other all night, and while cute? It serves no one.”

Natasha’s excellent company. You’d expected to be a little intimidated, unable to make conversation with someone you’ve admired for so long, but she really is like an old pal. Sharing anecdotes about Bradley, introducing you to various actors and writers. If possible, she’s even better connected than Bradley is. You suppose it makes sense - he’s spent the best part of the last few years doing his best to burn every bridge he’s ever built. You should consider yourself lucky that the studio even entertained the idea of him being Darcy.

Over the course of the night, you make your way back over to him, where he’s now sitting with Jake and Bob. For all the incessant bickering during filming, they appear to have reached some kind of tentative friendship in the weeks since filming ended.

There’s no space at the table they’re sitting at, so Bradley pulls you onto his lap, arms wrapping round your front. Jake lets out a low groan. “You two are disgusting.”

“Disgusting sells movies, Jake,” Bradley murmurs, jostling his leg just slightly as he readjusts. The sudden movement startles you, sending heat rushing straight downwards. Maybe time to lay off the champagne. Your head is turned, leaning against Bradley’s. “Not our fault that people are invested.”

“I beg to differ, actually. No one asked you to neck on the red carpet - that was all you guys.”

Drawn into other conversations, Bob and Jake float away, leaving just the two of you. Despite the sudden free space, you stay perched on his lap, as Bradley trails his lips along your jaw. His movements are light, trying not to draw any attention to you both in the corner of the room, but the way your breath hitches at each brush of contact, you know it won’t be long before other people realise.

“I-I need some air,” You manage. *And privacy*.

He catches your drift immediately, helping you to your feet, before guiding you towards one of the exits. An old hand at this, Bradley knows exactly where to go to avoid the crowds.

The corridor is quiet, a brief reprieve from the wall of people outside - each one wanting something different from you. Really, all you want from tonight is to be with Bradley.

It’s been the best night of your life - sharing your movie with the world, finally getting the kind of validation you’ve been searching for your whole life, but none of it compares to the way Bradley’s looking at you right now, his pupils blown wide.

Like you’re the success. Not the picture, not Darcy, *you*.

The attention is overwhelming. So instead you focus on him, pressing your lips to his with an urgency that surprises even you.

He stumbles just slightly with the force, an arm snaking around your waist as he deepens the kiss. Soon, your back is against the wall, and his knee is slotting between your legs.

You whine against his lips, fingers fisting his shirt.

“Tell me what you want,” He groans, nose brushing yours as he kisses you.

Lipstick well and truly gone, it’s all you can do to even stay upright. “W-want you, Bradley. Wanna go home with you.”

It’s laced with implication, but there’s no surprise. The two of you have been together for about a month, and something more for a lot longer than that.

It’s an image that’s been on Bradley’s mind for longer than he’d care to admit. Being able to take you apart, kiss by kiss, before burying himself deep inside you, pressing wet kisses to the column of your neck as he takes care of you.

He’s no stranger to sex. He’s more of a friend to it than most people will ever be, and it shows in his skills.

It’s not even particularly difficult to impress - guys these days are so quick to bend a girl over a surface and take what they want, that taking the time to make her cum goes a long way. Bradley’s always been an overachiever, though. He doesn’t consider anything under two orgasms satisfactory.

He doesn’t want this to be satisfactory.

He wants you to think about tonight for the rest of your life. Because he *knows* he’s going to be. He wants you to realise that there isn’t a man alive who would do what he would for you. That it’s taken him thirty-five years and two marriages, but he finally understands his parents.

Why Nick and Carole Bradshaw worked so well.

All the talk of having to work at relationships had always rung so false for Bradley. Surely if two people are meant to be together, there shouldn’t be any work at all. Things should fall into place on a cosmic level, and you should just click.

He was a decent husband to Catherine, for a while. Ruthie less so, though the feeling was very much mutual in that one. His habit of slacking, of letting the romance whimper and suffocate until it died, had always come back to bite him in the relationship department.

He’d rather die than make you feel like that.

So he takes your hand, leads you out to the car, and kisses you like he’s going to lose you.

***

“Have you done this before?”

The question catches you off-guard, so much so that you draw back, brow furrowing. You’re not a virgin, but in comparison to Bradley you might as well be. Had it been that obvious?

Of course it was. Bradley’s dated half of Hollywood - more than half, if the tabloids are to be believed. He’s been with women you could only dream of, men you’ve loved yourself.

You’re braced across his lap on the couch that overlooks the pool, having arrived back at the house twenty minutes ago. A tangle of limbs and fabric, it was all you could do to even make it to the living room. It’s been fairly chaste up until now, simply kissing and chatting, oscillating between an urgency and a stillness. Getting caught up in one another and growing frantic, before realising you have all the time in the world.

But you can feel Bradley growing hard against your thigh, the suit trousers doing little to disguise his length, and your hips are starting to roll of their own accord, trying desperately to create some friction.

“Y-yes, of course,” You stammer, heart starting to race slightly. “Wh-”

He's already shaking his head, his grip on your waist tightening. “Just wanted to make sure. You're what, twenty-three?”

“Twenty-two,” You murmur softly. “Twenty-three next week.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bradley breathes. “How old were you when- you know what? Never mind.”

“I was eight when *Romeo and Juliet* came out,” You reply, hoping your tone doesn’t betray your nerves. When he lets out a small laugh, you exhale slightly.

“Is this some kind of seduction tactic? Reminding me of my mortality?”

“Is it working?”

He hums contentedly, kissing you again. “Little bit. But you’ve gotta tell me something before we go on.”

“What?”

“What do you like?” His thumb is tracing your cheek, and you glance away, heat rising to your face. “Want this to be good for you.”

Growing up in a small New Hampshire town, sex had always been an incredibly taboo subject. Girls didn't think about sex, they didn't talk about it, and they certainly didn't have opinions on it.

Sex was between a man and his wife, and entirely orchestrated around his pleasure. Even in your limited experience, you'd found that to be the case.

Andrew, your high school boyfriend, had barely lasted past a few thrusts, collapsing on top of you sweaty and satisfied, while you considered a life of celibacy.

Jack wasn't much better. In a technical sense, there was a definite improvement - but his daily life arrogance seeped right through to the bedroom. His pace was rough, his hands rougher.

The marks had been hard to cover, shame blooming in your chest every time your makeup artist needed to spend an extra twenty minutes hiding them in your Pride and Prejudice dresses.

It had gotten to the point where you'd started refusing, citing tiredness and menstrual cycles as a reason to retire early. That hadn't gone down well.

Up until recently, you would be happy never having sex again. But every time you're with Bradley like this, every time he presses you against your door and kisses you until you can't breathe, the want grows - you don't think you can stand it anymore.

You want him wholly. In every way that someone can have another person.

And yet, there's still something holding you back. That deep-rooted fear that you'll disappoint. That you can't measure up to all the beautiful women who have been throwing themselves at him for the past fifteen years.

“Come on, sweetheart, don't get all shy on me now. This is about you.” Gently, his thumb tucks under your chin, swivelling your head to meet his gaze.

"It's stupid," You murmur, hands resting on his chest.

"It's not," He insists.

"It's just-" You begin, voice low as if it's something to be ashamed of. Logically, you know that isn't the case - but you also know if your mother knew what, or who, you were doing right now, she'd have a heart attack. "With Jack... no, forget it. It's alright.”

Bradley's immediately shaking his head, as his hands tighten slightly on your waist. "It's not. I promise, kid. I want to know.”

"He'd never even look me in the eye, you know?" Ironic, since you can't meet Bradley's gaze right now - but you can feel his eyes on you anyway. "It was so impersonal. Like he could've been fucking anyone. Face-first in the mattress I could've been anyone, and he wouldn't have known the difference. But it's silly, I'm just being silly.”

"Honey, Jack Winter's a stuck-up trust fund kid who wouldn't know how to please a woman if he had an instruction manual. And it's not silly - there's nothing silly about how you feel.”

You nod slightly, as he begins to trail his lips across your jaw. A soft whine escapes, your hips rolling against his.

"You want to keep going?" He breathes. "We don't have to. We could go to bed, try again tomorrow. Whatever you want.”

"I want to keep going," You reply, hands tangling in his curls. They're softer than you expect them to be. Just in general, Bradley's softer than you had expected him to be. He doesn't push you, or rush you, or make you feel less than for your nerves.

"If you change your mind you've gotta let me know, okay?”

You get up, Bradley following suit as he laces his fingers through yours, movements softening. You wish you could tell what he’s thinking, read the expression in his golden-brown eyes, but there’s too much storming in your own mind to pay it much attention.

You’ve been in Bradley’s bedroom before, curled up against his side as the two of you read before dinner. But it didn’t feel charged like this.

“Doing okay?” He mumbles, hands firm on your waist as he pulls you into him, your back to his chest.

You nod, voice leaving you entirely.

He’s unlacing the dress, pressing soft kisses down your spine as he goes. When it finally gets loose enough to drop past your waist, he’s instead taking your hand as he helps you out of it, before draping it over the chaise longue in the corner. A man truly after your own heart.

Leaving you in just your underwear and heels, the lace bra suddenly feels like an over-estimation. A presumption that you shouldn’t have made. You don’t turn, keeping your eyes focused on the painting above Bradley’s bed, of the soft silk that adorns his sheets.

It’s a sea-scape, definitely California. Maybe Malibu, or Huntington?

There’s a couple walking in the distance, too small to make out any discernible details, but it makes you pause. How many times has Bradley looked at this picture, imagining himself and Catherine, or Ruth? How many women have been here before, standing right where you are, and how many will come after?

Or maybe it’s just a painting, and you’re overthinking everything.

His own suit jacket shed, Bradley steps behind you, arm lacing around your front. You allow your head to tilt back, leaning against the muscles of his shoulder.

“Think you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,” He murmurs, hand settling under your chin to tilt it up towards him. “Gonna make you feel good. Promise.”

You ignore the slight pitting in your stomach at his words. You know you aren’t the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. You won’t have even been the prettiest girl in this bedroom. Made very apparent by his ex-wives and former co-stars, Bradley could have anybody in the world. You still haven’t quite worked out why he’s still gravitating towards you.

His hands are guiding, moving you towards the bed. When your back hits the mattress, he’s immediately settling between your legs, lips returning to your neck as he unbuttons his shirt. He’s everywhere, fingers trailing up your stomach while one hand hooks under your thigh, pulling you closer.

You’re not sure it’s possible for two people to get any closer than you are right now.

The straps are pushed from your shoulders, and the vulnerability you’ve been trying to hide from returns in full force.

But Bradley doesn’t seem phased. Instead, he dips his head, lips wrapping around your nipple, tongue trailing a light circle round the surface. All you can focus on is the warmth flooding through you, the way his hair feel under your fingers.

His free hand moves to your other breast, kneading softly at the skin.

Normally, you’d be bent over a surface by now, about three minutes from the entire encounter being over. Bradley hasn’t even made a move towards his belt yet. In fact, he hasn’t made a single choice so far that hasn’t been focused on your pleasure, your experience.

This is so much better than the stuffy Warner Brothers apartment. Or any of the parties you were both supposed to go to tonight.

He continues his path downwards, pressing sloppy kisses in a trail to your naval. Your soft sighs and whimpers fill the bedroom, a sound he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of.

Resting his chin on your pelvic bone, he glances back up at you, a question suddenly on his tongue. “Has anybody ever gone down on you before?”

The silence says it all. Really, he knew the answer already. He gets the impression your experience prior to Jack Winter is limited, and he’d bet the house that the guy didn’t take the time to make you feel good at the expense of his own high.

Your lip between your teeth as you shake your head, Bradley has to fight back a groan. It doesn’t normally take much to get him hard, but even by his standards this is ridiculous. He’s barely touched you, much less anything else, and yet he feels agonised. Like if he doesn’t get to have you soon he might die.

He’s filled with an unspeakable anger towards all of your previous partners - at the idea that not a single one of them took the time to make you feel special.

It’s got to be some kind of cardinal sin.

You look like a vision in his bed, hair splayed out across the pillow. Given half a chance, he could spend the rest of his life here, his entire purpose reducing to drawing those pretty little sounds from your lips.

“Can I?”

His eyes are wide, earnest as they look up at you.

You let out a small laugh, breathy and light. “Bradley, you can do whatever you want.”

Six words, laced with so much meaning that it makes his chest hurt. At the implicit trust you hold for him, and the idea that no one else gets to see you like this. It’s all for him.

Poised as if you’re about to break, Bradley gently hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, spreading you just a little wider, before hooking his fingers into the waistband of your tap pants. Finally discarded, there’s nothing separating you from him anymore.

But instead of diving in, he presses a kiss to your inner thigh. You have to fight back a shiver, clenching your legs a little as he trails higher. When he parts you with his tongue, you almost fall apart right then and there.

It’s such a foreign sensation, him working patterns against your clit while his hands steady your hips. Chest heaving, whimpers escape with each flick, each rub.

“*B-Bradley*.”

He doesn’t slow his pace, just hums against you as his eyes dart up to meet yours. Bradley having an extensive history might not be the worst thing in the world if *this* is what he learned from it. It doesn’t take long, just a few more minutes and an added finger before you’re a trembling mess.

The orgasm rips through you, Bradley’s name tumbling from your lips in a plea as the fire continues to burn low in your belly.

“Still with me?” He’s braced back over you, hand cupping your cheek as you come down.

“Yeah,” You breathe.

“Good girl.”

His tone is so soft, so loving, that it almost makes you moan. Instead, your hands move to his belt, fumbling as you try and get it undone. There’s far less care with his trousers than your dress. As soon as they’re down over his thighs, he’s tossing them across the room.

You palm him through his briefs, preening slightly when he groans into your mouth.

“Want you so badly.” It’s an obvious admission to make. Bradley’s just given you the best orgasm of your life, and he’s almost naked on top of you. The muscles of his abdomen ripple with each movement, like some kind of marbled statue. Like he’s been chiselled by the gods themselves.

“You’ve got me. However you want me.” His hips roll against yours, hand drawing light circles on your hip bone. It takes every ounce of willpower to pull back, leaning over to fish around for a condom in his drawer. It’s a no brainer when he’s with anybody else - the last thing he wants is a baby with someone he hardly knows. A scandal like that would shatter his already-fragile image.

With you?

The idea of emptying himself inside you, filling you over and over until neither of you can take it anymore, makes him want to combust. One day, he’ll give you all of that - the ring, the house, the kids. He’ll move mountains, bend over backwards to give you exactly what you want.

But you’re only just getting started. If tonight is anything to go by, you have a hell of a career ahead of you. Full of dynamic characters, and performances that continue to blow him away. He’d never do anything to jeopardise that - not when Hollywood is so dismissive of mothers.

He’s waited thirty-five years for you. He can wait a few more.

So he sheds the briefs, and slides the condom on.

You swallow slightly, as he’s revealed to you. Bradley’s big. Bigger than Jack, that’s for sure. In length and girth, Bradley triumphs. You have a sudden urge to reach out, trail your finger along the vein that follows the curve of his cock.

*Next time*, you tell yourself. Maybe tomorrow, you’ll get on your knees for him, make him feel as good as he’s been making you feel tonight. You’re feeling a little guilty about the distribution of work - Jack was always of the opinion that you should pull your weight during sex. Hands fisting in your hair, it would be a rare occasion where you didn’t have to get Jack off before he’d even consider letting you cum.

*But Bradley isn’t Jack*. And the way he’s looking at you makes you feel like you’re standing on the edge of a precipice. A great divide in your life. Before Bradley, and after.

“Still doing okay?” There’s such concern and consideration in his words that you’re suddenly very glad that you’re on your back - you’re not sure your knees would be able to withstand the soft honey of his voice.

“Y-yeah. Better than okay.”

His eyes crinkle, lips pulling into a smile as he drops a kiss to your forehead. His head dips lower, resting against the crook of your shoulder as he lines himself up. There’s a push, a short inhale escaping as he slows to a stop.

Any pain from the stretch is dulled immediately by his lips, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder. Inch by inch, you take him, until he finally bottoms out, voice soothing as he murmurs.

“Atta girl,” He rasps. “Taking me so well, honey.”

You can’t tell if it’s the praise, or the way he’s filling you so entirely, but you’re suddenly overcome with an urge to just *let go*. Close your eyes, and leave yourself to Bradley’s mercy.

“Hey, eyes on me kid, alright?”

You hadn’t even realised they were closing, but they snap open immediately. Meeting Bradley’s gaze, he pulls out just a little, before thrusting back in.

“F-*fuck*,” You whimper, nails digging into the flesh of his back.

“Feel good, sweet girl?” Each thrust is so precise, so deliberate, that you’re convinced you must have died and gone to heaven. Nothing on earth can feel *this* good, this right.

“S-so good, Bradley.” It’s more of a babble than anything else, your back arching against him as you do anything to get closer to him. He catches your drift, arm looping under your thigh to draw you in. The change in angle makes you cry out, as Bradley hits somewhere so deep that you didn’t even think it was possible to feel so full.

Grinding against your clit with each movement, Bradley’s very glad for the considerable distance between the house and his nearest neighbours. No one else should be allowed to hear the sugared moans falling from your lips. He wants to be the only one who can make you feel like this.

His pace increases, both of your rhythms turning erratic as you frantically press against one another.

It might be minutes, it might be hours, but when you tumble over the edge, he’s following right after. You’re kissing him again, lips plump as soft as he lowers himself down.

“You’re incredible,” He breathes, letting himself rest on your chest. He’s careful not to lay his entire weight on top of you, but he’s always been needy after sex. Even with one-night stands, girls he hardly knows, he’ll pull them into his side, drape his arm across their waist, and fall asleep.

It does have a tendency to send the wrong message, though. Tells girls that this might be more than sex, that he’s all in.

He’s not worried about that with you. He *is* all in. Even if you might still need a little convincing.

Eventually, he finds the energy to pull back into his knees, and pads to the bathroom to discard the condom.

When he slips back into bed, it’s all you can manage to reach out, eyes bleary from the sleep that’s threatening to pull you under. “I don’t think I’ve been having sex right - if that’s what it’s meant to feel like.”

Bradley chuckles softly, lips pressed to your temple as he moulds himself around you. “Sometimes it just takes the right person.”

“Want to do it again sometime?” Even when you’re near unconsciousness, the wit doesn’t die. Eyebrow raised slightly, your eyes are glinting. Because you already know the answer.

“I think we could make that happen, yeah. Would be a shame to let that kind of chemistry go to waste.”

You hum happily, pressing your face into his neck. “Thank you.”

Bradley frowns. Thank you for what? If anything, he should be thanking you for tonight. He wants to push, get you to elaborate a little, but your breathing has already evened out, and he knows you’re gone.

***

When your eyes flutter open the next morning, it takes a minute for you to orient yourself, to remember where you are.

*Oh.*

This is Bradley’s house. This is Bradley’s bed.

And Bradley’s nowhere to be seen.

Have you overstayed your welcome? Maybe this is how it always goes. Not-so-subtle hints until you clear out, tail between your legs. You don't even have a way back home - Bradley’s driver had driven back from the premiere. You'll have to walk down to Hollywood Boulevard, see if you can get a cab from there.

The only outfit you have with you is your premiere dress - you couldn’t get that on by yourself if you tried.

This was such a mistake. Everybody had warned you about him - Bob, Javy, even Callie at one point.

There’s only one thing for it. Grabbing his shirt, still discarded by the floor, you pull it tightly round you, and pad downstairs.

An illusion of comfort, that he hasn't already seen every part of you.

He’s standing by the stove, linen pants slung low on his hips as he cooks. It’s so domestic that your chest aches a little.

“Hey kid,” He smiles, eyes crinkling slightly as he turns to you. “Sleep well?”

You nod, nerves dissipating slightly. You’ve overreacted again. He just came downstairs to make breakfast. “I uh, hope you don’t mind about the shirt-”

“Don’t be silly - looks way better on you than me. Eggs?”

He’s leading you to the patio outside, kissing your temple as he pulls out the chair. Returning with a couple of plates, he takes a seat opposite you. It’s like neither of you quite know what to say, how to navigate this change in relationship.

Finally, Bradley speaks. “I haven’t slept with anybody since the day you got with Jack.” You’re about to reply, when he continues. “I don’t know, I just wanted to tell you, let you know that I’m serious about this. I want you to know, really unambiguously, that I care about you. And I don’t want to see other people, and I really don’t want you to see other people-”

“Bradley Bradshaw,” You smile, in between mouthfuls of food. “Are you asking me to go steady?”

“I guess if that’s what you want to call it, then yes.”

“I can hear the hearts of a million teenage girls shattering as we speak. *Bradshaw hunk shacks up with co-star* - I can see the headlines now.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat to it. “I’m trying to be serious, here.”

“Sorry, sorry,” You reply. “Bradley Bradshaw’s a newly crowned one-woman man - better?”

“A little,” He murmurs, fighting a grin. “Now, what do you want to do today?”

You think for a second, glancing round the garden. “It’s a nice day for a swim,” You muse. “But since I don’t have my suit with me, that means I’ll have to go bare. And it’s very rude to let a lady swim naked alone.”

“Is it now?” He laughs. “Not sure I’ve ever heard that one before.”

“It’s true,” You insist merrily, lip between your teeth. “It’s actually the first rule of being someone’s beau. Thought you’d know these things, Bradley.”

“Well, there’s always room for improvement.”

***

Pressed up against the cool tiles of the pool, it's a severe contrast to the heat radiating from Bradley's body, as he presses up against you.

*This* is what you've been working for. Spending the morning in the arms of a man you've loved since you were a teenager, having opened your immensely successful movie the previous night - all with a view of the Hollywood sign.

It's almost too good to be true.

You rest your chin on the ledge, eyes fluttering closed as you brace yourself against it. His arms encircle your waist, holding you tight to him as his lips trail down the side of your neck.

“House is nicer with you here,” He mumbles.

“Yeah?”

He nods. “’S too quiet normally. Or too full, when Natasha takes it upon herself to offer it up as host. But I like you being here. Suits you.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” You reply, batting your eyelashes slightly against the bright sun. Seeing your discomfort, his hand immediately moves upwards, blocking it for you. “Didn’t realise going steady meant you became my personal sun shield.”

“It means whatever you want it to mean, Lizzie.”

“I think I’d like for it to mean that you’re about to fuck me again,” You murmur, the morning’s activities filling you with a confidence you hope sticks around.

“Out in the open? Didn’t realise you liked it like that, honey.” His smile is lopsided, as his hands creep down your front, water lapping at your chests.

“I like it with you.” There’s a simplicity to your words that goes straight to his cock, feeling himself stiffening against the curve of your ass.

Bradley swallows. He’s such a goner.

Chapter Text

Pride and Prejudice is a smash hit. Like, mind-numbingly huge. Blows-Romeo-and-Juliet-out-of-the-water huge. The biggest opening of Bradley’s entire career. By a country mile.

Never before have Warner Brothers had such massive success so quickly. Initially only opened in a few theatres across LA and New York, it’s already made the jump to London and Paris, as well as countless other American theatres.

Overnight, you’ve become a household name. A sensation. Everybody wants to know about Lizzie Bennet, and the girl behind her.

You go from having signed two autographs in your entire life to stopping on every block to talk to fans.

The relationship with Bradley has only served to add fuel to the fire. Everybody loves a love story turned real life romance. And despite his track record, the press seem just as enthralled by you as they did his other conquests.

It’s not something you can think about for too long without feeling a little sick. Instead, you throw yourself into Little Women, pulling long shifts at Warner Brothers, before running lines with Bradley at night.

As expected, he makes a good Laurie.

You’re glad you’re able to work with Reuben, but it’s nice having Bradley to practice with.

He's working on another picture, this time at Paramount. It's a crime thriller, and he's opposite Penny Benjamin.

It's a tale often told in Hollywood, that of Bradley and Penny. Cast as his mother in Romeo and Juliet, the two have known each other for years. But despite several successful collaborations, the most notable is the marriage between Penny and Bradley's godfather, Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell.

Retired pilot, Bradley’s dad’s best friend, and the only link he has to his childhood, Bradley had introduced him to Penny onset, and sparks had flown. They've been married for almost fifteen years now.

The media likes to joke that while Bradley can't hold down his own relationships, he can certainly set up ones for other people.

You haven't met either yet. The relationship with Bradley is so new - barely a week if you're counting from the premiere. It feels like such a big step, one you're not sure you're ready for.

While Bradley may not measure you up against all his exes, you're sure they will. Pete and Penny have seen Bradley through every iteration of fame, and you know he values their opinion above all else.

You just can't imagine there not being a little disappointment at the change from Ruthie to you.

But instead of dwelling on all the things that could go wrong, you've been trying to stay in the present, and enjoy time with Bradley. In this new life you’ve had thrust upon you.

That part has been easy - you've been at Mulholland Drive since the premiere, much to Warner Brothers’ annoyance. Each day, as soon as filming wraps, the Rolls-Royce skids onto the lot, and you're gone until the next morning.

It earns disapproving looks from whichever executive happens to be around that day, but Bradley silences any complaints with a glare.

It's funny. With all the positive press recently, it's like Bradley was never anywhere but the top.

The press and studios alike seem to have forgotten that until recently, Bradley Bradshaw was considered box office poison of the highest order. That he hadn't had a success in years, and was on-track to never work again.

Now?

He's the king of Hollywood.

You're still not entirely used to being with him like this. The openness of it all. Holding hands in public, and having it mean something, while also being at the mercy of the public.

Of all the tabloids.

Some of whom don't deem you worthy of Bradley Bradshaw's company.

You try not to take note of any of it. But it's hard. The paparazzi circle your relationship like frenzied hyenas, waiting to pounce at the first sign of blood.

For every positive article, there's a matching smear in the gossip columns.

“BRADSHAW AND BABY CATCH DINNER AT BEVERLY HILLS HOTEL” becomes “BRADLEY PINING FOR RUTHIE? INSIDER GIVES SCOOP ON HIS PLAN TO MAKE HER JEALOUS WITH NEW FLING”.

It's exhausting, trying to balance the perception of an entire town, while just trying to get through the day. And you figure you can't really complain, when you get to have Bradley like this.

Totally unfiltered, his hair is freed from the usual gel thrust upon him by the studios as he sits across from you. You don't know why Paramount doesn't go in for the curls - it's his best look in your opinion. Especially now that the moustache is back.

Makes him look younger.

He's currently eyeing you over the diner menu, like he's been poised to speak for the past ten minutes.

“What’s on your mind?” You murmur, hardly glancing up as you deliberate between ‘Rosie’s All-American Cheeseburger’ and ‘The Hollywood Caesar’.

“Do you like it?”

“Like what - the diner?” He nods, and you smile. “Yeah, course I like it, Brad.”

“I know it’s not very fancy, but we’ve been eating out in Hollywood so much, I thought something by the ocean might be nice-”

“I’d take a diner over fine-dining any day of the week,” You insist. “You forget I live in a glorified shoebox.”

Rosie's Diner in Santa Monica is a world away from Warner Brothers, and Paramount, and the tabloids. Bradley's been coming here for over a decade, and while the staff know exactly who he is, they're happy to let him be.

It's a much needed change from the Los Angeles glitz and glamour that's invaded the rest of your life.

Before Bradley can reply, the waitress appears, and he looks to you to order. Still undecided, you gesture for him to go ahead, and turn back to the menu.

The rumbling in your stomach pushes you towards burger, but just as you’re about to make a decision, the tabloids flash back into your mind.

One in particular.

It had come out yesterday, and you hadn’t meant to look. But walking down Sunset, it felt like there were papers on every corner, each one containing an article that scrutinised your appearance in a detail you figured was reserved for the American government trying to decode secret messages.

As if that hadn’t been bad enough, they had then continued on to draw comparisons between you and Ruthie Bradshaw. She’s stick thin, closer to a child in proportions, and yet it makes you feel a little sick.

Even the fact that she kept Bradshaw unnerves you a little. Like there's a part of her that isn't done with Bradley.

If they had kids, you'd understand the decision. But Ruthie allegedly hates her ex-husband. She says as much in the court documents. So why does she want to keep his last name?

None of this comes from Bradley. You know that. Yet the idea that you’re a joke, the laughing stock of Los Angeles, makes you want to pack up and head for New York.

“I’ll have the Caesar,” You reply, smiling politely.

Bradley’s brow furrows a little. “Is that all? Thought you were starvin’.”

“I’m not that hungry - the drive shrivelled up my appetite,” You lie, shrugging slightly.

“Well, we’ll have the ice cream sundae for dessert, then. Two spoons. Thanks.” As soon as she's gone, he's fixing you with a look.

“What?”

“You said you were hungrier than you'd ever been in your life before we left the house.”

“And now I'm not,” You reply, voice clipped. It's more of a snap than you intend, and when his face falls, you bite back a wince. “Sorry. It's just near that time of the month, I think.”

“Don't worry about it,” He replies, eyes softening. “How was work today?”

“Alright. Alfonso's been on at us all about learning lines though. As if Reuben and I haven't been off-book since day one.”

“He'll realise eventually. When they move onto the whole cast scenes.”

“How was your day?”

“Good,” He hums. “Penny's great, as usual. And it's nice to have Mav around too. They're so busy, feels like I hardly ever get to see ‘em sometimes. Need to have them over for dinner soon, though - so they can meet you.”

It's a battle to pretend the idea doesn't terrify you. “Yeah, that would be nice.”

“I think you guys will get on. Really. Juliet was one of Penny's first roles. She did it in Chicago, then Broadway.”

The chat continues like that. Idle, casual, and by the time dessert comes around you’ve forgotten about the article entirely.

Not that Bradley would’ve taken no for an answer. The sundae is huge - way too big for just one person.

“Hang on,” He murmurs, reaching out to brush across your face, his thumb catching the excess ice cream. Clearly unsatisfied with his work, he leans in instead. “You've got a little something…”

His lips meet yours, and you sigh into him.

Here in this Santa Monica diner, you and Bradley could be anybody in the world. You don’t have to be actors, or celebrities. You’re just two people, having dinner, and living your lives.

You wish it could be like that all the time.

Pulling back, ice cream now gone, you smile at him. “You’re such a loser.”

“And what about it?”

*****

Your first hours of twenty-three are spent curled against Bradley's chest. His arms are wrapped tightly round you, and your face is tucked into the crook of his shoulder, breathing him in with each sigh.

The sun begins to poke through the curtains just past seven. Normally far too early for you, you make the exception when Bradley's breath ghosts across your neck.

“Happy birthday, kid.” His voice is gruff, and murmured directly into your ear, heading downwards with a rush of blood.

You adjust in his grasp, chest-to-chest, and smile. “I was hoping you'd have forgotten.”

“I never forget these things,” He replies solemnly. “I'm an elephant that way.”

“You forgot Pete's birthday last week,” You point out, and he scoffs.

“That's different. He's known me my entire life - we've never celebrated your birthday before.”

“So…” You hum, reaching out to run your fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck. “Are you saying that next year you'll forget my birthday because it's no longer special?”

His mouth quirks up, lopsided and wide. “Could never forget your day, Lizzie. You're always special.”

It’s been a busy week. Starting with Warner Brothers finally deciding what your next project with Bradley is going to be. Les Liaisons Dangereuses. Or, Dangerous Liaisons, as it’s to be called in the United States. It’s raunchier than anything you’ve ever seen on screen before, a tale of sex and seduction, veiled by the French aristocracy.

The plot follows Isabelle Merteuil and Sebastian Valmont - former lovers, now rivals. In an attempt to prove himself, Sebastian sets his sights on the woman currently staying with his aunt - Marie de Torvel. Married and inaccessible, he soon falls for her, leaving a furious Isabelle determined to wreak havoc on the two.

You are to play Marie, with Bradley as Sebastian, and Natasha as Isabelle.

It’s exciting, the prospect of getting to work with them both. You’d been hoping Warner Brothers would slot it in directly after Little Women, but they’ve decided to begin production towards the end of 1935, the hope being that the audience is itching for more Bradley and Baby by the time the film is being made.

Bradley’s more excited than you’ve ever seen him before - he’s already read the book twice, urging you and Natasha to do the same. You had obliged him, spending last weekend perched in his lap on the lounger as you read. Natasha had told him to go fuck himself.

“That being said,” Bradley continues, moving to brace over you. “Since I didn’t know about your birthday until the night of the premiere, my gifts were a little last minute. So you have to promise not to judge.”

“Bradley,” You gape. “You shouldn’t have got me anything! You’ve spent way too much-”

He cuts you off with a kiss, slow and deep before he draws back, getting to his feet. He heads to his closet, while you sit up, grabbing at his discarded shirt to draw around yourself. He emerges a few minutes later, with a distinctly book-shaped parcel, tied up neatly with a bow. “This is the warm-up present.”

He drops another kiss to your forehead, and you begin to unwrap the gift. “Hm, I wonder what this could possibly be?” You quip, as you pull the string away, revealing a hardback book. Your jaw drops a little as your fingers trace lightly over the spine. It’s The Great Gatsby. Your favourite book of all time.

“Oh, Brad,” You mumble. “It’s so beautiful.”

“Take a look inside.”

Arching an eyebrow, you turn to the title page, and gasp.

Dearest Lizzie,

Delighted to hear that you’re a fan. You have excellent taste. And for what it’s worth, I think you would make a marvellous Daisy, should they ever decide to make a picture.

All the best,

F. Scott Fitzgerald.

“Wha- how did you even manage that?”

“We have some friends in common,” Bradley shrugs. “You like it?”

“I love it,” You reply, gently setting the book down on the nightstand, before throwing yourself into Bradley’s arms. “Really, really love it.” You pepper kisses across his face as he laughs.

“Glad to hear it. You ready for your main present?”

“I’m not sure how that can be topped.”

“Just wait and see-”

He passes you a proper robe, and leads you down the staircase. Your brow furrows in confusion as he heads towards the front door. “Bradley, I’m not dressed-”

“S’okay. It’s just for a minute.”

The door is pushed open, and Bradley ushers you out, eyeing you expectantly. At first you don’t notice anything different. It’s the same massive front yard that Bradley takes great pride in maintaining. Until your gaze lands on the car that definitely wasn’t in the driveway last night.

“Oh my god. You didn’t.”

“You said you didn’t want to learn in the Rolls-Royce. So I got you a Ford.”

It takes a herculean effort to drag your eyes away from the car and back to Bradley’s face. “You’re insane.”

“Happy birthday, my sweet girl.”

Your arms drape across his shoulders, and you press your lips to his. It says everything you’re not brave enough to say yet. “You’re the best.”

“I know. Now, I was thinking we could get ready, and then head up to Griffith to beat the crowds. Fancy driving us?”

“Does having my own car mean you’re going to stop driving me everywhere?”

He laughs, hands settling on your waist. “How about if you drive us there, I’ll drive back?”

You hum slightly, pretending to think it over. “Seems like a fair deal.”

*****

You were silly to think it could last forever.

Your perfect little bubble, wrapped up in Bradley, and nothing but Bradley. Work was good, being with Bradley was good, and you’d even managed to forget about the tabloids a little.

Until Bradley got the long-distance call from New York.

Catherine Kelly, formerly Bradshaw, is coming to LA for a week and wants to have dinner. She’s taking a break from the theatre, working on a new picture, and wants to see her ex-husband.

You know a little about each of Bradley’s wives.

He’d married Cat when they were both young (’too young’, Bradley had told you), and had kept in touch after an amicable divorce. From what you could tell, they still considered each other friends.

The same couldn’t be said for Ruthie. It hadn’t been until last week, when you’d been sitting in the dining room having dinner, when Bradley had even mentioned her.

“What’s that space over there?” You ask, gesturing in the general direction of the doors to the backyard. You’ve thought it odd that a house as full of life and colour as Bradley’s is should have such a gaping hole in the living room, but have always forgotten to ask.

“My dad’s piano used to sit there,” Bradley replies, voice quiet as he pours another glass of wine.

“Oh. Where is it now?”

“Lost it in the divorce. God knows what Ruth’s done with it now. It’s probably in a dumpster somewhere.”

The resignation in his tone makes your heart hurt. He sounds so dejected, like this is something that’s been weighing on his mind for far longer than you could have ever realised.

“I’m so sorry, Bradley, that’s awful.”

The last thing you expect is the small sob that slips from his throat. Your lips part in horror - you’ve never even seen Bradley tear up before, much less this.

Padding round the table, you drop into his lap, and press a kiss to his temple. His arms tighten around you immediately, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “It was the only thing I had to remember him by.”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know if there’s anything to say - how can you make him feel better without getting the piano back? So you massage his scalp gently, and kiss him softly until his breathing evens, and he offers you a shaky smile.

You doubt Bradley and Ruthie will be having dinner anytime soon.

And you hadn't been expecting to get an invite to Bradley and Cat's reunion. They were meeting up with a few of the friends they shared during their marriage - it didn't feel like your place.

But Bradley had said Catherine had asked about you specifically, and you found yourself agreeing.

You wanted to please Bradley. And if that meant sitting with his ex-wife for a few hours, you could do that.

*****

You're entirely aware of the bubbling insecurity in your chest. Could even trace the roots straight back to Catherine Kelly if you tried.

Cat Kelly and her perfect red hair, the princess smile that stuns anyone in a fifty foot radius.

Cat Kelly, who knows Bradley in a way that you'll never get to.

You could be with Bradley until you're old and grey, and it still wouldn't matter. She loved his beginnings, knows exactly why he does what he does, thinks what he thinks. She got to love him at his worst, and got to grow with him in a way that he won't want to with you.

Cat Kelly, who's been nothing but nice to you all night.

Greeting you warmly, she'd spent the first ten minutes politely asking you questions, and introducing you to everyone at the table, before even acknowledging Bradley.

It's more than a little intimidating. This is a side of Bradley's life you've never experienced before, a person who was once incredibly important to him.

Sure, she's a little sarcastic. Her sense of humour throws you, and you can't always tell when she's being genuine. But she's far nicer than you were expecting, really.

She was his first love. Your mother always used to say that men never got over their first loves, just found a way to replicate the feeling with someone else.

Maybe you're the replication.

They're still so friendly you're not even sure why they got divorced in the first place. Shared jokes and twinkling eyes, it feels like an intrusion to even be at the table.

You're the only outsider here.

If you were more in control of your inhibitions right now, you'd be embarrassed at the way you're tucked into Bradley's side, pressing your face into his neck.

Peppering kisses along the scar lines, your hand rests under his suit jacket, rubbing softly. You're moulded around him, as much as one can be in the middle of a hotel bar.

His hand is on your thigh, tracing light patterns into your skin, but it isn't enough. You're not sure anything is enough.

It's the same need you felt before you slept with him for the first time.

All-consuming.

“You okay?” He murmurs, voice low.

You nod. “Just tired. Missed you.”

His lip quirks up slightly. “Missed you too, kid. You want to get out of here?”

You feel the familiar tug of selfishness. Bradley's here with his friends. And ex-wife, your mind adds. An incredibly talented, beautiful, lovely ex-wife, that you can't for the life of you understand why he'd ever leave.

He's having a good time. And you're spoiling that, because she scares you. Because you know you could never compete with someone like that - not in a million years.

“No, I'm okay,” You smile softly, leaning in further. “Promise.”

“You say the word, and we’re gone, alright? Want some one-on-one time with my girl before we go back to work.”

Returning his attention to the group round the table, you focus in Bradley. The feel of his jacket scratches your cheek slightly, and the urge to weep pricks at your periphery.

At the idea that this might be temporary. That one day, Bradley will wake up, and realise what he could have, and simply leave.

You stay another hour, before Bradley decides he’s had enough. You can’t tell how much of that is him wanting to leave, and how much of it is for your benefit - but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t glad to slip your hand into his and let him lead you out to the car. His jacket is settled over your shoulders, the slightest reprieve from the chill in the Los Angeles air.

The only time his hand leaves yours is to press a quick kiss to Cat’s cheek, with promises to catch up next time she’s in town.

The more naive part of you hopes that doesn’t come for a long, long time. Your brain realises you're going to have to get used to sharing your world with Bradley's past.

*****

There’s a slight stumble in both of your steps as Bradley pulls into the driveway. Truthfully, he’s glad to be home. He likes seeing Cat and her friends, but they always make him feel out of place. Like he’s still that twenty-three year old jackass who thought he could do whatever he wanted just because he’d been in a few popular pictures.

Though he knows many would disagree, he hopes he’s better than that now.

Plus, there was the issue of you being so obviously uncomfortable. He knows that one’s his fault - no new girlfriend wants to spend time with the ex-wife. Hell, if you produced an ex-husband, he’s not sure he’d be able to look the guy in the eye.

But despite all of his issues with Cat, he can’t imagine not seeing her. She knows him too well, and understands him better than most - you just have to look past the dry sense of humour.

It's an odd relationship they share. Too close for exes, too far removed to ever be anything more than platonic again.

He’s planning on making it up to you now, by taking you upstairs and making love to you until you can’t walk tomorrow, but you curl your fingers around his wrist, guiding him out towards the backyard.

It’s always been his favourite part of the house, but there’s something so special about sharing this space with you. It’s like you’re compelled to be outside - always opting for meals out on the patio, or to read your book by the pool. Maybe it’s still a novelty to you.

After all the New England winters you’ve endured, he thinks he’d want to stay in the sun too.

“Bit late for a picnic, don’t you think?” He quips, moving to sit on one of the lounge seats, expecting you to sit next to him.

Instead, you sink to your knees in front of him, and rest your chin on his thigh, as you look up at him. “I love it here,” You murmur, eyes trailing over the Hollywoodland sign.

He thinks you look like an angel out here. The blue of the moonlight, casting softly over your features, the hills of Los Angeles framing your face. You were born to be a movie star, he thinks. Born to be on the silver screen, to be adored by millions. He’s just lucky to be the one you’ve chosen to love back.

He’s so focused on drinking in every inch of your face - the slight part of your lips, the scrunch of your nose, that he doesn’t even realise you’re reaching for the buttons on his trousers. His breath hitches slightly, his own hands joining yours when you fumble slightly.

He reaches out, hand cupping your cheek, guiding your gaze up to him. A silent check, making sure you’re alright. That you’re doing this because you want to, and not because you feel like you should.

His thumb slips round your cheek, pressing just slightly as you take it between your lips. He has to bite back a groan, your doe-eyes boring a hole directly into his soul. He pulls back a little, settling against the chair as he works with you to get his trousers off. The shirt goes next, and soon he’s just in his briefs. You haven’t even taken your shawl off yet.

Your kisses are light, barely more than a peck as you work up towards his pelvis. By the time your hand finally palms him through the fabric, he’s painfully hard. If he wasn’t so full of want, he’d be embarrassed.

His life is so vivid these days. So completely and utterly different to the endless greys of 1933. And 1932. And 1931. It’s all because of Pride and Prejudice.

And you.

Finally, you’re pulling the underwear down, and pressing your lips to the underside of his cock. The sudden movement surprises him, and Bradley lets out a grunt. Your tongue traces the vein along his shaft, while your hand sits at the base.

“God, kid,” He groans, hand tangling in your hair - not to guide, just to anchor. A feeble attempt to hang on for longer than he thinks he’s able to. Each kiss, each flick of your tongue has him keening against you, moans getting louder by the second.

You brace yourself against his thigh, taking more and more until you’re gagging around him, tears pricking at your eyes. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his life. A few pitiful minutes later, and he can feel the familiar curls of an orgasm licking at his heels.

So much for his reputation of having the best stamina in Los Angeles. “I-I think I’m gonna- gonna cum, sweetheart.”

He wants to give you the option. Doesn’t want to do anything you’re not comfortable with. But when you continue your pace, licking directly across his slit and gathering all the pre-cum that’s accumulated, it tips him over the edge.

He jolts, hand in your hair the only thing keeping him grounded in reality as it washes over him. You catch it all, pulling back only when he comes down from his high, and resuming your vigil of the chin resting against his knee.

Like you haven’t just rocked his world.

“You’re too good to me, you know that?” His voice is raw.

"Could say the same about you, Bradshaw."

He swallows heavily. “Can I touch you?”

Your laugh is light. “You don't have to ask.”

“What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn't?”

“I wasn't aware you considered yourself a gentleman.”

He gets to his feet, pulling you with him. He's stark naked, and anyone on the front road who had excellent vision would probably be able to see him right now, but he doesn't care.

Drawing a shriek from you, he hoists you into his arms, and takes you upstairs, where he manages to reclaim a little of his status, drawing two orgasms from you with just his tongue.

By the time your clothes come off entirely, you're a trembling mess.

He doesn't think he'll ever get tired of it, the way your bodies mould together with each thrust. It feels more important than sex, more intimate. Like a merging of souls.

His fingers are laced through yours, his breath coming in sharp grunts, when it slips out.

"I love you."

"What?" Your reaction is immediate, movement stilling.

"I-I love you," He repeats, praying it isn't a colossal mistake. That it isn't far too early for this, and he's just scared you off.

But then your lip quirks up, and Bradley figures that he's right on time. "I love you too, Bradley."

It's the sweetest sound he's ever heard.

Hips resuming their movements, a slow roll, he begins to press open-mouthed kisses to your neck, an 'I love you' sprinkled between each one.

*****

Bradley gets his hand on the papers before you do. He hasn’t mentioned it to you, but he’s been counting down the days. It’s Academy Award Nominations day. The last Friday in January, they’re sent out to the press, and distributed amongst Hollywood. The postman gets a fifty dollar tip from Bradley to bring it first on his route, allowing him to get a good look at everything before the studios have even met to discuss it.

His eyes scan the list.

Best Cinematography - Pride and Prejudice.

Best Sound Recording - Pride and Prejudice.

Best Writing (Adaptation) - Pride and Prejudice.

He freezes when he reaches the acting categories. Your name, typed boldly amongst Claudette Colbert, Bette Davis, Grace Moore, and Norma Shearer. The pride that washes through his body surprises him. He knew he’d be thrilled for you, whatever the outcome, but the lump forming in his throat is unlike anything he’s ever felt before.

His own name is tucked under Best Actor, but it barely registers. Bob for Director, the full picture for Outstanding Production. Seven nominations. That’s the most of any film this year.

The movie nobody thought would even make it to post-production. It’s crazy to even imagine seven Oscars.

“Brad,” You murmur, voice tired as you appear at the top of the stairs, robe wrapped around you. “What are you doing up so early? Come back to bed.”

If there’s something that Bradley’s learned about you recently, it’s that you cannot function on less than eight hours of sleep. After a late-night movie and a drive up to Griffith, you hadn’t even made it back to the house until almost two. And when you’d suggested a bath before bed, how was Bradley to refuse? There’s nothing he likes more than you settled between his legs, head resting against his shoulder as he presses kisses to your temple.

You’re probably not too impressed at him detaching from you at six this morning.

“Just thinking about my girl.”

“Your girl would like a few more hours of sleep. Preferably four. Or five.”

He hums slightly, pretending to think it over. “I was actually thinking about how she’s an Academy Award-nominated actress, as of this morning.”

“What?”

"You did it, honey. They love you."

You're down the stairs in an instant, eyes scanning the paper as if to check yourself. Seemingly satisfied, you let out an incredulous laugh. "Oh my god!"

"No one deserves it more."

"Except maybe you."

Bradley scoffs. "I do not deserve it more than you. You're the heart and soul of that film. I'm an appendage."

"A very beautiful, talented appendage, though," You murmur, leaning up to kiss him. "God, I can't believe it! We get to go to the Academy Awards! I mean - I won't win, not in that category-"

"You will-"

"But even just being in the room is insane. Oh - I need to go dress shopping-"

"Sweetheart, the ceremony isn't for another six weeks. We've got time."

You slow slightly, as if just registering his words. "Yeah. I guess you're right."

"How do you want to spend your first day as an Academy Award nominee?"

The smile you give him shows you know exactly what you want to do today. "I have some ideas."

"Yeah? I'm all ears."